A Study In Sociopathic Behaviour
by SolaceActor
Summary: Natalia Heather is a high-functioning sociopath. Her past is of a horrendous nature, and Sherlock and John find out too early for her liking. But there's a new serial killer on the lose, masking his murders with suicide. Natalia's attraction to Sherlock, and his to her, may prove interesting. Sherlock/OC My favourite :3 Rated M for references. COMPLETE Sequel coming soon.
1. Chapter 1

"Come on, please Natalia, I can't handle him on my own." Lestrade begged me as I sat in his office. This was the fourteenth time in the past month that Lestrade had done this. I had yet to give in. For God's sake, he hadn't even described the man/case I was to be working with/on. I restrained myself from rolling my eyes and remained impassive. He sighed and ran a hand through his greying metallic hair. "Natalia… Please. This is the worst suicide yet and Sherlock isn't making it any better." _Finally, something about the case_. Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? Oh, this was going to be _interesting_. I wondered how Mycroft would react.

"I was wondering when you would finally describe the case. Rather than mindlessly begging me to assist you, perhaps you should define this 'Sherlock' and the case I am to be working on." I said monotonously, allowing a tinge of sarcasm. Sarcasm was one of my best friends. 'Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit' Whoever said that is, no offense, a moron. Lestrade looked up hopefully and he actually broke into a grin.

"Thank you so much, Natalia." He said gratefully and I cocked an eyebrow.  
"Who says I'm taking the case?" I questioned, concealing my indignation that he now knew that I would take said case. _Worst suicide yet… Sounds like it's either a very grisly suicide designed to look like murder or a subtle murder designed to look like suicide._ Lestrade shrugged sheepishly. "I know you pretty well by now, Nat." He explained and I grimaced at the awful nick name. Nat… Really?

"And I'm to just waltz right in and demand to see a Mr Sherlock Holmes?" I asked, almost incredously. Yes, I'm a sociopath but I don't just barge in and demand someone to speak to. Lestrade looked at me with an imploring look. "Since when did you disagree with that?" It was my turn to shrug.  
"Since I got shot for it." Lestrade automatically sobered and nodded. He then cleared his throat and gestured to the door to the morgue that we were stood in front of. I waited for him to speak. "Well, are you going in or not?" I sighed and nodded wearily. Lestrade made this man out to be a bit of a git. Let's see my reaction.

I nodded to Lestrade, telling him to leave and he did. I opened the door silently and peered inside, my hat pulled down low. Oh, I haven't described myself, have I? Well, how about I leave you on a little cliffhanger so that I can do so.

I am rather tall. Tall for a British citizen. Tall for a female British citizen. I've got a slim figure but it's muscled, thanks to fighting with criminals and going to the gym to keep fit. Chasing criminals and suspects is one of my favourite things to do. Especially when I take to the roof. The looks on their faces when I catch them afterwards is simply priceless. But back to my features.

I have very dark brown hair that is just average. No curls really but it's not poker straight. It's just… hair. It goes down to the middle of my bicep. My eyes are green with a band of brown around the pupil but I see nothing incredible about them. There is nothing really very remarkable about my appearance. It's my intelligence and lack of emotions that people notice. It's actually rather amusing when they see how rude and unfeeling I am. And my intelligence startles people. As I said, it's rather amusing.

I tend to wear shirts, trousers, suits, stuff like that. Formal clothing is my style. The hat I mentioned earlier is a black trilby, black being the colour I tend to wear most. I suppose you could say that the trilby is my signature look. Well, a trilby and a suit. Images of me online mostly portray me with a smirk on my face and a chain or a whip in my hand. No one has managed to get a picture of me with eyes in view. Oh, and let's not forget the white gloves that I always wear. Never go anywhere without them. Despite my wearing a suit, I wear Converse and that is that. No other shoe will satisfy me like Converse. Or All Star, which ever suits you best.

Now, where was I? Ah yes, I opened the door, didn't I? Well, here goes.

The first sound I heard was the crack of a whip. No, a riding crop judging by the pitch of the sound. I inched the door open a bit more and stepped in. A woman was standing at a viewing window and looking down upon something very interesting. Every now and then, she would jump and flinch. Even from where I was standing, however, I could see a little naughty smile on her face. _She's having dark thoughts…_ I thought with a little smug smirk. Whoever was using the riding crop had to be pretty damn good-looking. I walked over silently and stood beside her, watching her. It took a few seconds for her to notice me, but when she did, she jumped roughly six centimetres in the air.

"Hello, I'm Natalia Heather, you are?" I asked, waiting for her to get over the initial shock of my entrance. She thrust her hand out, blushing profusely. She then cleared her throat and stood as tall as she could. It was no use; I was still about a head taller than her. "I am Molly Hooper, one of the directors of the morgue." She said with pride, her nose somehow losing gravity's hold and rising in the air. I immediately didn't like it.  
"Well, isn't that nice." I stated more than questioned. Her expression dampened and she frowned angrily at me. "Oh, don't take it personally, I do that to a lot of people; scare them, humiliate them, insult them and then request their help. Which is what I'm about to do now, actually. Have you seen a Mr Sherlock Holmes?" Molly gaped like a goldfish for three point two seconds and then nodded, pointing down through the window.  
"He's currently testing a body…" I was already halfway to the door before she even finished her sentence.

Now, I may have been gifted with intelligence and size, but I was not gifted with emotions and a sense of direction. It took me forever to find the room where Mr Holmes had apparently been and even when I finally got there, he was no longer in there. I huffed resignedly and exited, exploring the mortuary instead.

I finally came to one door that I had yet to try. I opened the door, not even bothering to knock first. "Right, I've been looking all over the bloody mortuary for Sherlock Holmes and I've yet to find him, so he better be in here or so help me, I'll murder someone and frame it on said man to teach him a lesson from his damn disappearing acts." Yes, I opened my mouth before I even looked at the people in the room. When I did notice who was in there, I did not feel embarrassed or get at all red-faced. No emotions, remember?

Standing to the side and leaning on a table was a plump man with glasses and brown suit on. He was wearing an awful tie of the colours of Gryffindor and he appeared happy, smug even. Judging by his posture and intelligent glint in his eye, I would wager he was once a University teacher. The suit gave it away a little too. A man to my right was wearing a dark jacket with a checked shirt. His hair was blonde and short, military sort, and his eyes too held intelligence. More so than the man I had previously noted. Judging by _his_ posture and his skin tone, he was a soldier, a medic to be precise and the stitching on his jacket told me so. He had a crutch and I could only guess that he had been shot whilst out in the battlefield of either Afghanistan or Iraq. His hands were shaking and I figured he had a therapist.

The final man was standing beside the soldier with a phone in hand. His hair was dark and curly and flopped over his face a little. His suit was well-kept and seemed expensive and I'm not ashamed to say that he wore it _well_. His piercing blue eyes I could even see from where I was and his pale skin and defined cheekbones glinted slightly in the artificial lighting. I had no doubt in my mind that he was Sherlock Holmes, the esteemed super intelligent, observant, cocky, stubborn consulting detective.

"Am I correct in saying that you are Mr Holmes?" I said, pointing at the dark haired man. He watched me for a few moments longer, no doubt observing myself and gaining facts about me. After what felt like days, he spoke. His voice was very deep and, dare I say it, irresistible. Perhaps he's older than I had initially thought. "Yes, you are correct. You are?" I didn't bother crossing over or pulling out a stupid badge that I didn't even own. I exhaled with a nod.  
"I'm Natalia Heather. Apparently I'm your assistant for this case."

"You're not very remarkable, are you?" He spoke suddenly. I cocked my head slightly. That was a little unkind. This man had at least that in common with me. "I suppose not. But some would say that compared to your brother, you're not very remarkable either." His body went rigid and he stared me down. Or at least tried to. I happen to be very proficient in the art of staring. Apparently so was he. Only when the man to my right, the soldier, spoke did we stop.

"And… who _exactly _are you?" I looked at him and watched him intensely.  
"As I said before, I'm Natalia Heather and I'm to be Sherlock-do you mind if I call you Sherlock?" I quickly asked the detective. He gave no answer but I figured I would. "Okay, I'll take that as an 'I don't care'. I'm to be Sherlock's assistant. I need not ask who _you_ are, however." He seemed a little taken aback and I waited.

"What do you mean?" I heard from behind me and I turned to find the plump man looking at me quizzically. My mouth twitched and I held down a smirk. They were so easy to read. "I mean that I can tell most of your life stories to all of you right now. I'm sure it won't come as a shock to you since you already know Sherlock here." By now, Sherlock was watching me openly.

"What can you tell about me?" Mr Plump asked. I shook my head, appearing to be weary.  
"It's always the same question." I muttered to myself. I sighed and snapped my head back up to him. "You're an ex-teacher from the Oxford University and you have terrible taste in ties. You've been divorced once but keep the ring, showing that you are still in love with the woman or that it simply holds sentimental value, something I don't understand. You know Sherlock from his early days and are used to his intellectual prowess but seem surprised when someone perhaps shares at least _half_ of his genius. You're thirty eight and you enjoy coffee sitting in a park. Can I stop talking now; it's making me light headed."

Huzzah for silence. He seemed gobsmacked, to say the least. "And what about me?" I looked at the soldier behind me. I smiled ever so slightly.  
"You're a little more interesting. You're a soldier, a medic to be precise, but you've left the war now. The war has left you with nightmares, evident from the bags under your eyes, a tremble in your left hand and an injured leg from a bullet, resulting in use of a crutch. Your hair is short, meaning that you have the decency to cut it before it gets outrageously long and you are most certainly intelligent." He gulped but was not entirely speechless.  
"How did you know I was a medic?" He asked quietly. He had a very soft tone, as though tired of the noise of war. But I knew better.  
"The stitching on your jacket tells me so. It's a unique stitch that only a medic/surgeon would know. Now, I have one question for you." And then Sherlock speaks with me.  
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

We looked at each other in interest and then the door opened from behind me. The woman from before, Molly Hooper, walked in with a coffee. "Ah, Molly, coffee." Sherlock said loudly, cutting over the medic's speech. I was faintly surprised at how well he had been taking it. He seemed tired but still shocked. He definitely took it better than Mr Plump.

"Thank you." Sherlock handed the phone back to the medic and then turned to Molly. He had a small smile on his face and then it disappeared suddenly. "What happened to the lipstick?" He questioned her as she gave him his coffee. I noticed that she intentionally brushed her fingers against his but he took no notice. She seemed to struggle for an answer for a moment. "It wasn't working for me." She said with a little nervous smile. I had reason to believe that she didn't see me on the way in. She focussed on Sherlock and Sherlock alone.  
"Really? I thought it was a big improvement." Her smile fell abruptly as I registered Molly's emotions as disappointed. "Your mouth is too _small_ now." Sherlock continued with a little gesture with his hand and then he sipped his coffee. A timid 'Okay' was all I heard from Molly.

He placed the coffee down on the table and shook himself a little, no doubt ridding himself of the awful taste. Molly walked past me and she heatedly glared at me. "May I ask what I've done wrong, Miss Hooper? It is Miss, right?" I shouldn't have added the last scathing remark but this woman seemed to have marked me on her burn list. She just scoffed femininely and flounced out of the room, her ponytail swishing around her back as she left. I merely ignored it and turned back to the men.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked apparently out of the blue. I cocked my head. Was this a musical interests gathering? No, too irrelevant. Something different. Moving in? Perhaps. "Sorry, what?" The medic spoke softly.  
"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Either of you?" It took me a moment to assess who he was speaking to.  
"You're involving me?" I asked emotionlessly. Sherlock looked up at me.

"Yes, it's evident from your lack of sleep, slightly dishevelled appearance and tattered clothes that you have no money and no place to stay." Two can play at this game.  
"My lack of sleep is from my nightmares, Sherlock. My slightly dishevelled appearance is from chasing you around the abnormally large mortuary all afternoon and my tattered clothes are merely tattered because they are my favourite garments to wear." How's that?

"But where's the adventure in that, Miss Heather?" I blinked and then blinked again. Damn.  
"There is none, I am sorry to say. Touché, Sherlock. In any case, that small bit of banter was rather fun. We'll have to do it again sometime. But, back to the main subject at hand, yes, I do not have a home, but why are you involving me in this apparent flat-mate conversation?"

"The more people who stay means less rent to pay." He said in a slightly sing-song voice, his tones varying with the words. I allowed myself to have a half-hearted chuckle.  
"Indeed it does." I replied, "And no, it doesn't bother me." He nodded and then looked at the medic.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He said with a big smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Yes, he was older than I had anticipated. The soldier looked at Mr Plump, who was observing blood in a plastic test tube. "You told him about me?" Mr Plump shook his head.  
"Not a word."  
"Who said anything about flatmates?" He asked, getting a little anxious.

Sherlock was, by now, getting his coat and preparing to leave. No doubt I would have to follow. "I did. Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." He then turned and began putting a nice scarf. I admired his coat; it was dark in colour and was a trench coat so it was rather long, making him look even taller. Sadly, I could tell he was taller than me. Only by about a head though.

"Wasn't a difficult leap." He continued.  
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" Soldier man said. Sherlock ignored him and picked up his phone from the side.  
"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We ought to be able to afford it." He came to a stop in front of the soldier and I, "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary. That means you're coming too, Miss Heather." I rolled my eyes softly. Thought so.

"Is that it?" The soldier turned and looked at Sherlock imploringly. Sherlock walked away from the door and stood beside me. He put his hands in his pockets as he walked. "Is that what?"  
"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?" Sherlock was looking at me for some bizarre reason that I did not care to understand and then returned his gaze to the man in question. "Problem?" He asked, as though there was nothing wrong. Personally, I saw nothing wrong with it. That's how flatmates work.  
"We don't know a thing about each other." Soldier boy responded irritably, "I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." Incorrect. I addressed him as Sherlock earlier. I did not mention it. Sherlock did.

"Miss Heather here addressed me by my full name earlier, you should have been listening." There was a moment of silence. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on, don't you think?" Wow, what a bastard. A cool bastard though. How did he deduce about his brother though? I had a feeling that it may have been something close to the soldier, since he had been standing beside him earlier. Perhaps his phone?

The soldier was standing, looking absolutely dismal and Mr Plump, or Mike as I now knew him, stood still with a smirk on his face. Sherlock opened the door and stood to the side, allowing me to go through first. I walked through and I heard "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He made a little click and I could only assume he winked, "Afternoon." In my peripheral vision, Mike raised a hand in acknowledgment and the door closed, us leaving quickly to recover Sherlock's riding crop.

**Well… You hate me. Don't you? You hate me. I am still writing Immortality. I am. I promise. I have the plot and everything. I'm using this as a little story to write if I get a little bored on the way. Immortality is still being worked on. Promise. Cheers folks. Adios. **

**Luna**


	2. Chapter 2

"Where is it? Damn it!" I sighed as I sat on one of the examining tables, ignoring Molly's disapproving glares. It's not like my trousers would contaminate it. Sherlock was going haywire searching for his riding crop. It had started out as amusing and then it just got irritating. I hadn't been watching either of the other humans in the mortuary but I was intent on staring at a tenon saw on a table to the side. Don't ask me why. I have sociopathic tendencies.

Sherlock wheeled round and faced Molly. "Where is it? I left it right here!" Molly squeaked but didn't reply. Sherlock pushed a table over and I licked my lips. I glanced at Molly and then looked away. And then I looked back at her again. Her eyes were shifty and she was shifting from foot to foot. Sherlock had yet to notice because he was still avidly searching for his beloved riding crop. It didn't take much to guess that Molly had hidden it. "Miss Hooper, be a dear and go fetch Sherlock's riding crop." I said sweetly with smile to match the tone.

Immediately, Sherlock stopped searching frantically and turned his eyes upon me. "Did _you_ hide it?" I looked up at him and smiled softly.  
"Sherlock, do you seriously think _I_ hid it?" After a second or two, his gaze fell upon Molly. Sherlock must have really liked his riding crop. I guess his was unique. Molly gaped and didn't say anything, save for a few squeaks every now and then. "Miss Hooper, I rather think you should give it back to him. You've spent your time with Sherlock. Now it's time for him to go home." I chided her as though she was a child. I knew that would hurt more than shouting. Comparing an adult to a child always hurt.

"I-I-I don't know what y-you're talking about…" Molly attempted but I shook my head, my anger rising slowly but surely.  
"Molly. Get the riding crop. Now." My voice was now cold and empty. She dashed out of the room. Sherlock frowned and then looked at me.  
"Why didn't I see that?" I knew what he was talking about.  
"Because your attachment to the riding crop and your frustration blinded you. Calm down, Sherlock, and we'll talk about the flat." I thanked the Lords that it didn't sound like I was taunting him.

I was standing at the door of Scotland Yard and Sherlock was beside me. Lestrade didn't know I was living in the building so I always had to take precautions when re-entering. "Until tomorrow, Sherlock." I said evenly and he nodded in return.  
"Until tomorrow, Natalia." And he turned and walked away. Why did my name sound nice coming from his mouth?

I was late and I knew it. I despised being late since punctuality was my middle name. Literally. Natalia Punctuality Heather. Parents named their children after virtues, such as Patience, Prudence, Harmony, awful names like that. My mother refused on having my forename something as silly as that so my father begged for my middle name to be a virtue. She gave in, unfortunately. Anyway, I was in a taxi as I tell you this. The driver was the stereotypical cabbie driver; burly, cap over his brow and a gruff voice. I paid him no attention as I checked my watch every forty four seconds. Finally, he pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock and the soldier were already there. Damn it, it was so irritating referring to him as 'the soldier' or 'Soldier boy' or even 'the medic'. I needed to ask his name. The cab stopped and automatically both of their eyes were on the cab. I handed the driver a fiver and got out, ignoring the inquiry about change. Slamming the door shut behind me, I walked up to the two men waiting. "I apologise for my tardiness, gentlemen. Time flew." I said with a little smile. The soldier put out his hand for me to shake and I did so, noting the label in his collar as I did. 'John Watson' is what it said. Hm.

Sherlock held out his own hand and I shook it as well, ignoring the tingles as best as I could, despite us both wearing gloves, albeit they were rather thin. I noticed Sherlock glance at his hand when we parted but otherwise had no reaction. "Well, this is a charming spot." I commented as I peered around the environment. One of the best spots to get taxis. Near a few shops. Good for getting groceries quickly. Yes, this place was rather nice. "Must be expensive." John observed as well. Sherlock put his hands behind his back as he stood by the door.

"Mrs Hudson, the landlady – she's given me a special deal." He explained, "Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." I cocked an eyebrow. John seemed sceptical too.  
"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" He said with disbelief evident in his voice and on his face. Sherlock looked back at him.  
"Oh, no, I ensured it." He replied with a big smile again. I chuckled lightly and the door opened.

"Sherlock." The woman said as she immediately embraced the man. She appeared to be in her early fifties and had fading blonde hair. Her makeup was a little much but she seemed very kind. She reminded me of my grandmother. Her purple outfit made me chuckle for no reason. I noticed her manicured nails and I figured she was the typical older landlady. She was definitely likable. Sherlock pulled back from her hug and then gestured to John and I. "Mrs Hudson, Dr John Watson and my new assistant, Natalia Heathers." She shook our hands and gave an especially large smile to me.

"Hello, come in." She invited and we smiled nicely back.  
"Thank you." We both said and she stepped aside to let us in. Politeness wasn't something I was proficient in but Mrs Hudson seemed like the sort of lady I wouldn't need to try to be polite to. "Shall we…?" Sherlock said and stepped in after us, Mrs Hudson closing the black door behind us.

Sherlock led the way up the stairs and we came to a stop at a door. The wallpaper consisted of red bamboo shoots on a yellow background and I found I rather liked it. Sherlock and I waited for a few seconds for John to catch up and then Sherlock opened the door.

The flat was rather nice. A quaint fireplace, large windows, well-stocked bookcases, a nice kitchen… I'm happy to say I approved. "Well, this could be very nice." John mumbled to himself as he hobbled to the left. The room was littered with boxes, cushions, papers and books. Hm, Sherlock had already made himself at home. "Very nice indeed." John continued.  
"Yes… Yes, I think so, my thoughts precisely." Sherlock agreed.  
"Someone's made themselves at home." I added, looking pointedly at Sherlock. He grinned but John seemed to miss my comment.

"Yes, well, I went straight ahead and moved in." Sherlock explained as John spoke.  
"Soon as we get this rubbish cleaned up." Whoops, on John's behalf, "Oh." John appeared very awkward and Sherlock seemed _slightly_ abashed. It was all rather amusing. Sherlock walked away and began to clean up some of his belongings and papers. "So this is all…" John began but Sherlock quickly cut across.  
"Well, obviously I can…" He cleared his throat, "… straighten things up a bit." He stabbed a dagger into the mantelpiece over the fire.

"That's a skull." John said, pointing his crutch at the offending head on the side. Sherlock glanced at it sideways.  
"Friend of mine. Well, I say friend…" Sherlock muttered and then walked over to me and removed his coat and scarf.

"What do you think, then, Dr Watson? Miss Heathers?" Mrs Hudson spoke from the side and I turned with a large smile on my face.  
"It's simply charming, Mrs Hudson. This is precisely what I've been looking for." I complimented her and she laughed a little. I had a feeling we'd bond rather well once we all moved in.  
"Thank you, dearie. Now, there's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms." John seemed confused.  
"Of course we'll be needing two. Three if you can spare them." John reasoned. Mrs Hudson quickly covered up her mistake.  
"Oh, I'm sorry, I assumed Miss Heathers and Sherlock were together. It's been so long since he brought a woman home." I didn't react. Physically. I think my brain died though. I don't know, I'll check later.

"No worries, Mrs Hudson. I'm a couch sleeper myself. Never slept on a bed in my life." I reassured her and she nodded, missing my last comment.  
"Never?" John asked from behind me. I spun to look at him.  
"Indeed. Never had the luxury." I repeated and cricked my neck. It was a habit that I had picked up on because the couches in Scotland Yard were too small for me. I noticed John's frown and I recalled his previous job. "No worries, John. I'm used to it." _Mostly_.

"Oh… Sherlock! The mess you've made." Mrs Hudson said disapprovingly in the kitchen. Sherlock glanced over but didn't answer; instead he moved a box of books from the long couch and then went to fire his laptop up as John made himself comfortable in a seat. I sighed somewhat happily. This could be good.

"I looked you up on the internet last night. Both of you." John said suddenly. Both Sherlock and I turned from our positions; Sherlock at the laptop with his hands in his pockets and myself at the window, throwing my jacket onto the sofa. It was then that I noticed a music stand with some sheet music on it. It was Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake piece. One of my absolute favourites classical pieces ever. "Anything interesting?" We both said simultaneously.

"Saw the images of you first, Natalia." Seems like we were definitely on first name basis. I nodded distractedly. "Mostly ones from security footage. Almost all of them have you holding a chain or a whip of some sorts." I looked up with a small smirk and my hat pulled down low, knowing that I would be looking exactly like one of the images. "Oh? Damn, I'll have to, uh… _refresh_ their system. Google, was it?" John nodded with a puzzled look on his face.

"I see. Thank you, John. Anything else?"  
"Your medical records were difficult to find but I got them." Time stood still.

Even Sherlock had stopped what he was doing to hear what was going on properly. I could nearly hear the cogs in his brain moving and I swallowed. "Go on." I urged him though that was the complete opposite of what I wanted him to do.

"You were tested on as a child." Just that sentence made me close my eyes in pain. John continued despite my discomfort. "You had all of the worst diseases injected into you and you became a super-antibiotic. Your immune system could fight off any fatal disease but still leaving you fragile and susceptible to common colds, flu and general nausea." Damn it, why did I have to ask him? Why did I tell him to keep going? "Would you like me to stop?" John asked worriedly. I shook my head and gestured with hand for him to continue. Oh well, may as well get it out of the way. "You were kidnapped by terrorists afterwards and they took you to a cave they mined out from behind a waterfall in Latvia. They threatened to use you as a 'medicine' by releasing your bodily fluids. You fought your way out and came back to Britain. You have tests every month." Do not cry, do not cry, do _not_ cry… Damn it!

I turned away quickly so that neither Sherlock, John or Mrs Hudson could see my tears. "Congratulations, Dr Watson. You certainly live up to your name." I managed to keep my voice clear of emotion and waited for the conversation to continue.  
"Natalia, I'm-."  
"John…" I was startled that Sherlock cut across him. Why would he do that? He's sociopathic too. "Leave it."

"Found your website, Sherlock. _The Science Of Deduction_." John said with an ashamed tone. Sherlock's back straightened a little, probably with pride.  
"What did you think?" He asked. John scoffed a little and I imagined Sherlock's expression going a little sour. Quickly, John saved himself. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"  
"Actually, the controls in a plane are unique enough to leave markings upon the pilot's thumbs. And, let's face it; software designers always have awful ties." I chipped in with a small smile, recovering quickly from my little episode. Sherlock turned to look at me and then turned away again.

"Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." John sat silent for one moment.  
"How?" He asked simply but he didn't gain his answer just yet.

"What about these suicides, then, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson spoke while looking at a newspaper. A police car pulled up outside 221B.  
"Sherlock." I muttered quietly but I knew he'd hear. He looked at me. I didn't glance at him; instead I kept my gaze fixed on the car and the person who had now entered the flat.  
"Thought those would be right up your street. Three exactly the same." Mrs Hudson continued from behind us.  
"Four." Sherlock replied and I heard John shift a little. "There's been a fourth."  
"And there's something different this time." I continued.

"A fourth?" Mrs Hudson questioned, aghast at the idea. We turned and watched Lestrade run up the stairs.  
"Where?" Sherlock questioned quickly. I licked my lips in anticipation. Lestrade came to a stop in the room, seemed to be catching his breath. He was about to tell us where when he noticed me. He frowned. "What are you doing here?" He asked me.  
"No time, Lestrade, answer his question." I said, back to being stony and stoic. Hehe.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." He answered, still out of breath. Sherlock didn't move.  
"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to me otherwise."  
"You know how they never leave notes?" Oh damn it. "This one did." Damn it! "Will you come?" Lestrade was used to begging by now. He's been begging Sherlock for half of his career and he's been begging me for the same half as well. "Who's on forensics?" Sherlock inquired.  
"Anderson." Was the answer. I rolled my eyes.  
"Why is it him?" I asked myself. Stupid man likes single women, despite his married status.

Sherlock nodded slightly at my otherwise muted question. "He doesn't work well with me." Sherlock cursed.  
"Well, he won't be your assistant." Lestrade reasoned.  
"I _need_ an assistant." Sherlock retorted. I cleared my throat.  
"I believe I _am_ your assistant, Sherlock." He turned to me.  
"Oh yes, I almost forgot." He then looked back at Lestrade, "Never mind then." Lestrade seemed to be getting impatient. As always. Being Detective Inspector came with cons as well as pros. "Will you come?"  
"Not in a police car, we'll be right behind." I assumed he was referring to the both of us now. Lestrade nodded with relief. It seemed he was under a lot of pressure recently. Poor bugger. Oh well. "Thank you." He said simply and left.

As soon as the door closed downstairs, Sherlock jumped with glee. I couldn't stop myself from beaming at the idea of some _excitement_. "Brilliant! Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed as I rejoiced silently. John looked at us both in surprise but Mrs Hudson seemed used to it. At least, to Sherlock's reaction anyway. "Ah, four serial suicides and now a note." Sherlock was spinning on the spot and moving around the room with joy. "Oh, it's Christmas, don't you agree, Natalia?" He turned to me with glint in his eyes.  
"Oh, it most certainly is, Sherlock." I agreed with a little laugh.

Oh, I suppose that I've confused you now. You see, if I have no case or job, I am very dull and have next to no emotion. But _now_ with a _new_ case and one with such _interesting_ qualities, I could act a bit more… human? I frighten other humans with my enthusiasm, to be honest.

"Mrs Hudson, we'll be late. Might need some food." Sherlock informed the landlady while putting on his coat. Hm, I forgot I was going with him. Oh well, I had more important things on my mind now; like this brilliant case! "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." Mrs Hudson said with disapproval. Sherlock seemed not to notice.  
"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home." My mind must have been much too engrossed in the case because I had also forgotten that John was there. _Focus, Natalia. You can't afford to miss these things in the excitement_, I chided myself. "Don't wait up." Sherlock said, opening the door and walking through it. "Come along, Natalia! The game is afoot!" Game? I liked the sound of that.

**Hey, wanna hear a secret? When I have a story that I wish to write, I become 'ill' and stay at home writing it, closing my laptop and hiding it if my parents approach my room. It's very thrilling. Anyway, hope you liked this one. Did you guys like the little tingles and Sherlock looking at his hand? I really enjoy writing fluffy stuff, especially with Sherlock. I think this one will be less flirtatious than my Lydia fic but it will be interesting. I love my character, Lydia, but Natalia is interesting in my opinion. I love ALL of my characters! :D Anyway, thank you guys for reading! Cheers folks. Adios. **

**Luna**


	3. Chapter 3

"You're a doctor." John looked up abruptly from the newspaper. I had reminded Sherlock that it would not do for John to be left in the flat alone. When Sherlock seemed doubtful, I told him that John could move his skull or contaminate some of his belongings. I had to run up the stairs to keep up with the detective. His entrance was silent, however. Sherlock was pulling on his gloves. "In fact, you're an Army doctor." John put the newspaper down and got to his feet with his crutch.  
"Yes." He said and cleared his throat.  
"Any good?" John looked at Sherlock with indignation and sarcasm.  
"Very good." Was his somewhat cynical reply. _Interesting…_

Sherlock and I surveyed him. "Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths." I spoke up, stepping further into the room and past Sherlock. Both of them looked to me. I approached John and I'm a little happy to say that I was taller than him. "Well, yes." John replied, surprised at my forward nature.  
"Bit of trouble too, I bet." I muttered and stared at him in the eye. John did not back down. Yes, I was feeling rather fond of the doctor already.

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much." I waited for a moment.  
"Want to see some more?" The reply was instant.  
"Oh, God, yes." He mumbled and I turned away from him, marching over to Sherlock, John on my tail. Sherlock nodded at me with approval and I couldn't help but grin proudly. We thundered down the stairs.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out." John called from behind me and Sherlock. I was leading the way, for once. Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway behind me since her voice was easy to hear and not muffled by doors or walls. "All three of you?" She inquired, almost disappointed in the lack of company. Poor woman. I would keep her company later.

Both Sherlock and I turned abruptly and stalked over to the landlady. "Impossible suicides?" Sherlock began.  
"Four of them?" I continued.  
"No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock finished, his hands on Mrs Hudson's shoulders. He kissed her on the cheek and Mrs Hudson blushed a little with a giddy smile. "Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." She slapped him playfully on the arm.

We all began to walk to the door. "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" Sherlock said rather dramatically and we exited 221B Baker Street. Sherlock came to a stop at the kerb. He looked right and then left. "Taxi!" He shouted, his hand in the air. And it actually came to a stop for us. I had awful luck when hailing cabs. "Damn, how do you do that?" I questioned though mostly to myself. He did not respond as the car came to a stop. Sherlock opened the door and got in first, me second and John last. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." The detective said and the driver nodded, pulling away from 221B and we were on our way.

It was dark by now and we were still in the taxi. Traffic was terrible and the driver was a very patient fellow when it came to allowing cars before him and waiting at a junction. We didn't have any rush, however. John was currently looking out the window and Sherlock was on his phone, looking at the recent news page on the suicides. I, however, was meditating. It's very relaxing and therapeutic. God, I love that word. Therapeutic. So when Sherlock spoke suddenly, I flinched a little and my eyes flew open.

"Okay, you've got questions…" Sherlock announced. It took me a moment in my disoriented state to realize that he was talking to John.  
"Yeah, where are we going?" _He said earlier, John_. I thought tiredly. I had had a long day and I couldn't wait to get back to that couch…  
"Crime scene. Next?" Sherlock replied.

"Who are you? What do you do?" John asked curiously.  
"What do you think?" Sherlock retorted with another question. John and Sherlock speaking made me amused. They seemed to banter but really John, bless his heart, had no idea how to respond to most of Sherlock's come-backs. "I'd say… private detective…"  
"But…?" John then looked back at Sherlock from the window.  
"But the police don't go to private detectives." Well done, John. Well done.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world; I invented the job." Not quite.  
"I thought I was the only one as well." I spoke up. Both men looked at me. It would appear that they did not know I was conscious. Sherlock did not speak. He only observed me silently. It was unnerving but exciting. "What does that mean?" John asked, completely clueless as to what a consulting detective was, poor man.  
"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult Sherlock or I. In this case, both of us." And then John said something blindingly stupid.  
"The police don't consult amateurs." John said with an amused grin. Oh, really?

"When we met you for the first time yesterday, we said 'Afghanistan or Iraq'. You looked surprised." Sherlock said casually while looking out of the window. Lucky men on either side of me had windows to look out of. I had a grubby windscreen in front. "Yes, how _did_ you know?" I frowned for a moment.  
"John, we didn't know, we saw. And I've already told you _how_." I reminded him. John shrugged a little.  
"That was how you saw it. How did Sherlock know?" I had a feeling it would be exactly the same so I closed my eyes.  
"Wake me when we arrive." Sherlock hummed in agreement and I disconnected myself from the world.

"Natalia." I groaned slightly. "Natalia." Who on earth is insistent on waking me up? "Natalia, we've arrived." That deep voice is very nice. I like it a lot. Who does it belong to? "Natalia!" My eyes snapped open and I inhaled sharply, gulping. I was still seated in the taxi but John was out. Sherlock was sitting beside me. I blinked for a moment and then shook my head. "Must have gotten too absorbed. My apologies." I said a little croakily. Sherlock nodded and then exited the taxi, keeping the door open for me. I copied him and then cricked my neck. Again, John looked at me with concern but I ignored him.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked out of the blue and I figured he was speaking to John again. John was hobbling on my left and Sherlock stalking on my right. "Harry and me don't get on, never have." John explained, "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker." Sherlock's face was slightly surprised.  
"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."  
"Harry's short for Harriet." John continued and Sherlock stopped, his mind at work once more.

"Harry's your sister." Sherlock basically repeated what John said. I sighed and checked my watch.  
"What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John asked, a little put out. I shrugged at him and he flexed his fingers on his left hand. Sherlock seemed to be insulting himself inwardly. "Sister!" He hissed.  
"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" John asked again. Sherlock ignored him.  
"There's always something." Sherlock muttered and we came to a police car.

"Hello, freak. Oh, and there's the other one." I had always hated Sally Donovan. She was just full of contempt for anyone different. Funnily enough, she had despised me from the moment I had brought up the dismal state of her knees one day. Scrubbing the floors, _of course_. "Have you two gotten together? After a day? Bloody hell, psychopaths sure do stick together, don't they?" _Sociopath. Not psychopath. Honestly._ Sherlock took no notice of her greeting while I stared her down. "We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."  
"Why?" She sneered. Sherlock stopped for a moment.  
"We were invited."  
"Why?" Sally's voice got more 'superior'. The idea of her being superior was laughable. Sherlock took on sarcasm. Oh sarcasm, how I do love you. "I _think_ he wants us to take a look." Sally's face was getting very unfriendly and I sincerely wanted to shoot it off of her. But I'm a sociopath. Not a psychopath. After all, there is a difference.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" Sally spoke with an irritating tone. I rolled my eyes.  
"Always, Sally." Both Sherlock and I said, Sherlock ducked under the tape and he pulled it up for me to walk under as well. Then we both stopped. Sally's scent hit me and it reminded me of one slimy man who we would have to meet soon. Anderson. "We even know you didn't make it home last night." I said as though coming to an epiphany. Sally looked at me in shock and anger and then John tried to enter as well. To get off of the subject, Sally put her arm out to bar John's way.

"Er… who's this?" She questioned with annoyance. I thrust my hands in my pockets.  
"Colleague of ours: Dr Watson. Dr Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." I introduced them both with a nod of my head. Sally looked at us both disbelief. "Old friend." I muttered under my breath.  
"A colleague? How did _you_ two get a colleague?" Sally scowled, "Did _they_ follow you home?" She then turned to John. John seemed to be fed up by now.  
"Would it be better if I just waited…?"  
"No." Was Sherlock's instant reply and he lifted the tape once more. Sally rolled her eyes and walked away, taking out her radio. "Freak's here. Bringing him in." She said irritably and no doubt to Lestrade.

We followed her across the street and Sherlock and I spun around, surveying the road and the house, looking for any hitches that could give us any clues. Unfortunately, when I stopped observing, Anderson was walking through the garden gate of the house and glaring at Sherlock, removing rubber gloves. His face still repelled me and he turned his nose up at my partner. Partner? Yes, that was correct, I think. We were officially partners now. "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock came to a stop in front of the forensics scientist.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Anderson sneered, a trait both he and Sally had in common. Sherlock did not insult him in any way, as much I wanted to.  
"Quite clear." He said crisply and I nodded to John as we moved closer to the house, hinting to Sherlock we needed to get inside. It was, after all, rather cold outside. Unfortunately, it attracted Anderson's attention. "Ah, Natalia, nice to see you again." Anderson spoke with a 'lovely' smile. I returned it with a sickly sweet tone.  
"As ever, Anderson, it's _such_ a pleasure to see you. Wife is out of town, I see." He frowned for a moment. "No wedding ring but still mismatched skin on your finger." I explained it as though speaking to a child. He ignored it. He often ignored my criticisms. Apparently having sex with me was higher on his priorities list than insulting me.

"Why not ditch the freak and come inside with me? I'll give you a proper welcoming." He winked and raised his eyebrow. That was the most forward that Anderson had ever been, if I'm honest.  
"You're simply too vulgar for my tastes, Anderson. Sherlock at least has the decency to… well, Sherlock has decency. Oh, and I've no doubt you enjoyed last night with Sally." I added. I could pretty much feel Sherlock's smugness increasing by the second. Anderson spluttered and it was very amusing.

"Wife away for long?" Sherlock asked, his posture now even more straight with pride simply rolling off of him. Anderson shook his head in irritation. "Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that. Natalia implied it just now." The forensics scientist snapped and I rolled my eyes.  
"Your deodorant told me that." Ah, I see, he was going for the more subtle approach rather than the mismatched tones on his finger. Anderson frowned. "My deodorant?" He said, unconvinced.

"What do you notice about it, Natalia?" Sherlock asked me with slight mirth.  
"It's for men." I replied with sarcasm. Anderson was failing to understand the simplicity of it.  
"Well, of course it's for men – I'm wearing it."  
"So's Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock responded and then sniffed, "Ooh… I think it just vaporised. May we go in?" It still surprised me whenever Sally or Anderson tried to insult Sherlock and I. They've yet to win a fight but they just carry on anyway. You'd think they'd learn. Apparently not. "Now, look, whatever you're trying to imply…" Anderson warned, even waggling his finger a little.  
"We're not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over." I spoke up and moved past them, Sherlock and John following, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." I smirked and walked right in, triumph in my eyes. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to find Sherlock looking straight ahead with no expression. I frowned momentarily. What was he doing? He then glanced down at me and I saw the amusement in his eyes. "Very nice." Was all he said and then he passed me.

"You'll need to wear one of these." Lestrade 'greeted' us while shrugging himself into a blue suit. Really? No. Lestrade then noticed John limping behind us, the poor fellow. "Who's this?" He asked in surprise, looking at Sherlock and I.  
"He's with us." Sherlock said while adjusting his gloves.  
"But who is he?" Lestrade pressed.  
"I said he's with us." Sherlock's tone meant it was final. I watched in faint disdain as Lestrade and John pulled on the suits. There wasn't really a point to wearing them. I had never liked them. "Aren't you two going to put one on?" Sherlock glanced at me and then we looked at John silently. He shrugged and continued to put it on.

"So where are we?" Sherlock asked lowly. Damn his voice, it was so deep. When he was speaking quietly it was just… Hehe, maybe I should remain quiet. "Upstairs." Lestrade replied, zipping up his suit and grabbing gloves.

Just looking at the stairs made my legs ache. They looked interesting and decaying but walking up them… Ugh, I hated stairs. "I can give you two minutes." Lestrade informed us as we began to climb them.  
"May need longer." Sherlock said, looking up to the top.  
"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." _Ouch, they'll be having nightmares for a while_. We continued up the stairs as I went through the information again in my head and then categorised it. That's how I view my brain. It's one big database. If it's not needed, it's deleted.

Lestrade entered the room first, then Sherlock, thirdly me and then John. Immediately I noticed the victim's colour co-ordination (pink all over) and messy hair. She appeared to be in her late thirties and her skin was slightly mottled. I also noticed the mud on her left leg but not her right. A small travel case or a suitcase must have been dragged. Even her nails were pink.

"Shut up." Sherlock said suddenly. Lestrade looked at him in confusion.  
"I didn't say anything." Lestrade said incredously. Sherlock didn't seem to care.  
"You were thinking. It's annoying." He replied.  
"Would you like me to stop thinking, then?" I queried with an eyebrow raised. Sherlock looked at me with his hands behind his back. He always stood so tall and straight. Damn his posture. "Of course not. You're a quiet thinker, despite the levels of your intelligence." As insulting as that sounded, it was not one. It was a compliment. From Mr Sherlock Holmes. Don't get many of those.

Slowly, I approached the woman. _Rache…_ It was scratched into the floorboards. Jennifer's left hand was beside it and her nails were splintered and cracked because of it. Left handed. Rache… German for Revenge. Sounds too cliché. Esperanto for Race. A race? Hmm… Haitian Creole for Out. Out? Interesting. Not very likely however. Portuguese for Split. Unlikely. Latin for Rachis. Highly doubt it. Perhaps… Rachel? A daughter? A sister? Definitely female. Perhaps they had an argument and she was seeking redemption. Or perhaps Rachel died… Most likely lost her daughter to a disease or a miscarriage of some kind.

Sherlock bent over and swept his gloved hand over Jennifer's back. It came up with moisture. Wet. "Umbrella?" I noted quietly. He reached over to my side and took the umbrella out of the pocket. Dry. We shared a glance. I then put my own fingers under her collar. Wet. She was only making a short journey in the rain. She must have turned her collar up to shield herself against the rain. Sherlock began checking her jewellery while I inspected her hair and legs. Mud was only on one leg and her hair was damp because of the rain however it was messy, despite the mild winds here in London. Another town then. Jennifer's clothing was practical; she was practical and she enjoyed looking it. Must have been a _very_ short journey for her not to bother with her hair.

"Anything on the jewellery?" I muttered to Sherlock.  
"All jewellery clean, save for her wedding ring. Unhappily married… 10 or more years." He then slid the ring off of her finger and inspected it. He then handed it to me and I peered at it. Grimy on the outside, clean on the inside. Regularly removed. Definitely unhappily married. Removed it at social gatherings? No, she saw other men. Crafty. This woman was leaving us clues. Oh, we would have been great friends.

"Got anything?" Lestrade said from behind us. We both smirked at each other.  
"Not much." We said in synchronicity.  
"She's German." Damn it, when did that worm get here? Anderson stood in the door with his arms crossed and looking exceedingly pleased with himself. "Rache. It's German for revenge."  
"Yes, and it's also Esperanto for race, Haitian Creole for out, Portuguese for split and Latin for rachis." I cut across him, not looking at him, instead removing my gloves.  
"My offer still stands, Natalia. I can show you a better time than that freak." Sherlock appeared to be tired of his company. "In any case, she could be trying to tell us-." Sherlock walked up to the door.  
"Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock said simply and shut the door in his face. Sherlock and Natalia – 2. Anderson – 0.

"So, she's German?" Lestrade recapped. I rolled my eyes. Sherlock was on his phone, checking avidly on some sort of website. "Weather?" I asked him shortly and he nodded, taking his eyes off of his phone for a moment to glance at me. It would seem that he still wasn't used to being around someone of the same intelligence. He then showed me the phone. Cardiff - Weather: Heavy rain, heavy wind, stormy… It fits. "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff – so far, so obvious." I answered Lestrade's stupid question.  
"Sorry, obvious?" John piped up, still trying to keep up.  
"What about the message, though?" Lestrade inquired. I ignored him and looked at John intently.  
"Dr Watson, what do you think?" I asked him. He looked at Lestrade for a moment and then back to me.  
"Of the message?" He questioned.  
"Of the body. You're a medical man." Sherlock continued for me.

"We have a whole team outside." Lestrade said in slight disbelief that we brought our own doctor.  
"They won't work with us." Sherlock replied bluntly.  
"I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ two in here." Lestrade attempted for _some_ sort of compassion. It didn't really work. Did he really expect compassion from a pair of sociopaths? It would appear so. How stupid of a Detective Inspector. "Yes, because you need us." I retorted.  
"Yes, I do." Lestrade replied grudgingly. He then looked down at the body. "God help me."

"Dr Watson." Sherlock said a little louder. John looked up from Jennifer to the other consulting detective. "Hm?" John was reluctant to agree to Sherlock's orders and he glanced at Lestrade just in case. Lestrade shook his head and closed his eyes. "Oh, do as they say. Help yourself." He gave in and left the room. I heard him vaguely speak to Anderson but I ignored it.

John limped over to the right side of the body and pushed his leg down so that he could crouch. "Well?" Sherlock asked a little impatiently.  
"What am I doing here?" John mumbled.  
"Helping us make a point." Sherlock whispered back. I shut the door after Lestrade left but still they only spoke lowly. John didn't seem to like what his new 'job' was now. "I'm supposed to help you pay the rent." He reminded him.  
"This is more fun." I mumbled as I knelt beside Sherlock.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead." John said monotonously, as though we couldn't see that for ourselves.  
"Perfectly sound analysis, but I _was_ hoping you'd go deeper." Sherlock admitted. The door then opened and in popped Lestrade again. Looking at the expression on his face, he was in no mood for our sociopathic antics. I shifted in my position so that I was no longer on my knees, but merely crouched down, the whole of my feet placed on the floor. I don't understand how some people can't do that. Instead, they just crouch and balance on their toes. I mean, balancing on toes is easy but why is it so difficult for them to use the whole of their feet? Never mind.

John altered his leg so that he was kneeling as I had done before and he inspected her. I raised my hands into a 'praying position' and watched the examination intently. After a few moments, John already had results. "Yeah." He straightened up a bit so that he was back to he was before, "Asphyxiation… probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit." Interesting… Definitely ingested poison of some sort. "Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs."  
"You know what it was, you've read the papers." I commented lowly. John seemed a little confused.

"Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth…?" I was about to remark on the manner of death when Lestrade spoke over me.  
"Sherlock, Natalia, two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got." I was tempted to get him to beg but I decided not to. He needed a break.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink." Sherlock gave an almost indecipherable nod to me and I continued.  
"Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night from the size of her suitcase." Sherlock looked at me sharply.  
"Suitcase?" Both he and Lestrade repeated. I nodded and carried on.  
"Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."  
"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up…" Lestrade seemed to regret raising his voice at me. He knew that I didn't like loud voices yet he was, shouting. I managed to ignore it.

"Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, so it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or who _does_ she remove her rings for?" Sherlock continued after that.

"Not _one_ lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that amount of time so most likely a string of them. Simple."  
"That's brilliant." John said in awe. We looked at him in confusion. "Sorry." He said and looked at the body again.  
"Cardiff?" Lestrade repeated, arms still crossed defiantly.  
"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock mumbled. Damn his voice.

"It's not obvious to me." John spoke up with a slightly nervous tone. Poor man. Sherlock looked at him and then at Lestrade, as if in shock. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains?"  
"It must be so boring." I said in the same tone and then quickly moved on, "Her coat – it's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours – no rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too. She's turned it up against the wind." I demonstrated a little with my own coat.

"She's got an umbrella in her pocket, but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried."  
"So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" Sherlock took out his phone, the screen on the weather page, "Cardiff." He showed it to us all. Again, John could not keep his mouth shut.

"That's fantastic." John seemed simply awestruck. Was it really that incredible? I couldn't see how. Just a keen eye and an open mind are needed for it really. "Do you know you do that out loud?" I muttered to him.  
"Sorry, I'll shut up." John assured us.  
"No, it's… fine." Sherlock replied.

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked from behind us. Sherlock looked at me with such an intense gaze, I think I melted.  
"Yes, why do you keep mentioning a suitcase?" He stepped closer to me, our proximity making it difficult for me to breathe. I could smell his cologne from where I was. It was subtle but it smelled good. No, it wasn't cologne; it wasn't potent enough. It was merely the scent of Sherlock. I allowed myself to inhale the musty aroma of books, old wood and gunpowder and then returned to my normal state. "In due time, Sherlock." I said quietly and then began searching for it. "Yes, where is the suitcase?" I inquired to Lestrade. "She must have had a phone or an organiser." I muttered to myself.  
"Find out who Rachel is." Sherlock said from behind me, still watching me moving around and thinking.

"She was writing Rachel?" Lestrade said in disbelief. I wasn't really listening; the cogs in my brain were whirring around. Damn, this was an _interesting_ case. "No, she was leaving an angry note in German!" Sherlock said sarcastically, "Of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be." I turned around and surveyed the scene. Dead woman, string of lovers, lost someone called Rachel, scratches their name in wood, causing pain, suffering and agony. Why? Why would she do that? I voiced these thoughts. "Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" Lestrade still had not figured out the suitcase and apparently, neither had Sherlock.

"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asked, his patience wearing thin. Once more, Sherlock span to look at me, his eyes demanding an answer. "Look, tiny splash marks on her right heel and calf not present, are so on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way." I explained and then looked up at Sherlock who had not looked away from me, "Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious – could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night. Now where is it? What have you done with it?" I once again began searching, ignoring the men's penetrating gazes on me. And then Lestrade replied to my requests oh so casually. "There wasn't a case."

I looked up slowly and stared at him. "Say that again." I dared him, wondering if I had heard him correctly. If he was lying, so help me, I would just shoot him. Simple as. "There wasn't a case. There never was any suitcase." Lestrade responded, repeating it again in case I failed to hear it a second time. I jumped to my feet and pushed past both Lestrade and John. Sherlock had easily caught on by now. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" Sherlock shouted, his voice easily being heard throughout the house.

"Sherlock, Natalia, there was no case!" Lestrade followed us through the door, arms still crossed. He still seemed unconvinced, the bastard. I shook my head in disbelief and looked at him from where I was standing on the stairs. "But they take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them!" I retorted angrily. For God's sake, they can be so incredibly thick sometimes! Lestrade didn't seem too bothered by my unusual outburst. "Right, yeah, thanks, _and_?" Lestrade called down as Sherlock and I disappeared down the staircase. We stopped and looked up at the Detective Inspector and our Army doctor.

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how." Sherlock said rather quietly despite the distance between us and Lestrade, "But they're not suicides, they're killings, they're serial killings." Sherlock then clapped his hands. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. Love those. There's always something to look forward too." He said enthusiastically and we began our descent once more.

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade yelled. Oh for God's sake…  
"Her case!" I shouted back up, "Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here and they _took_ her case." And then the epiphany hit me. "So the killer must have driven here. Forgot the case was in the car." I muttered lowly and now only Sherlock could hear me. He seemed to be thinking along the same lines as me. Of course he was, he was a genius. "She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John spoke for the first time in a few minutes. It was the loudest I had heard him speak.

"No, she never got to the hotel." Sherlock said, "Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking…" EPIPHANY! "Oh…" We both had come to the same conclusion. "Oh!" Sherlock clapped his hands together as I raised my hands, index fingers extended. I vaguely noticed Lestrade lean over the bannister and call our names. Why didn't we think of it before? It was obvious! Pink clothes, pink shoes, pink nails, pink lipstick, pink CASE. No… Oh! Phone! She had left her phone _in_ her case, leaving it behind _intentionally_ so that we could catch the killer. Oh, she was _crafty_!

"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Sherlock muttered to himself and I agreed.  
"We can't just wait!" Lestrade seemed appalled at the idea of waiting another _minute_. Of course, this was Lestrade we're talking about. Lestrade was never a very patient man. "Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, really look! Houston, we _have_ a mistake! Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" I shouted and we ran off quickly.  
"Of course, yeah – but what mistake?" Lestrade shrieked angrily. Oh damn it, damn his patience. Sherlock and I ran back to the entrance to the stairs.  
"PINK!" And off we rushed to find the nearest skips.

**This one was about 10 pages on my Microsoft Word. Longest chapter I've done for any of my stories, I think. Hopefully it wasn't too boring. I let Natalia's intelligence really surface here and I hope you don't mind! I love all of my faithful reviewers for all of my other stories so hopefully, this one will be fine. Cheers folks. Adios. **

**Luna**


	4. Chapter 4

"John's been gone an awful long time." I observed from the kitchen. "Coffee or tea, Sherlock?"  
"Coffee. Black, two sugars." I added the one teaspoon of coffee and two of sugar. I then took out another mug and added a teabag with two sugars. "You seem concerned for John's wellbeing. Have you grown fond of him?" Sherlock inquired from the lounge. As I left the kettle to boil, I walked back into the living room where Sherlock was lying on my bed. Well, the couch. He looked up at me as soon as I entered but I did not make eye contact with him. Instead, I tidied up a little, moving papers to the side and clearing up bowls of rice we had eaten earlier. "Of course I'm fond of him. John is a likable man. He's our flatmate so might as well be nice." I explained evenly. He seemed suspicious.

"Do you have _feelings_ for him?" He spat the word, as though he didn't know a thing about them and despised their very existence. I nearly dropped the glass I had been holding. Feelings? For _John_? Seriously? Sherlock was wearing three nicotine patches but they can't have done _that_ much to his brain. "No! Of course not! Sherlock, what are you talking about? Why do you even care?" I was peeved that he had interrupted my tidying and my calm behaviour. Damn him. My mind was busy racing through all of the reasons why he was so curious.

"I'm talking about your emotions, obviously. And I don't particularly know _why_ I care; I just know that I do." He said without so much as a variation in tone. I merely shook my head. "What would your reaction be if I invited Molly here for dinner tomorrow?" Ouch. That stung. That wasn't sarcastic, by the way. That was genuine. Why? I don't even know. I gulped, damning the man to hell three times over, and shrugged. "I wouldn't care. Just so long as she stays out of my room and does not touch my mug, I'm fine." I said as impassively as possible, busying myself with folding John's newspaper. He saw through it. The lie, not the newspaper.

"Liar." My eyes snapped up to his, "Don't deny it. You would be jealous." He said victoriously. Oh, so that's what I'm feeling right now? Hmm… Interesting.  
"And if I had dinner with Mycroft?" Silence ensued. And then Sherlock's face went unfriendly.  
"I would be generally mortified and would forbid you from seeing him." I cocked an eyebrow at his behaviour. Now who's jealous? And, seriously, _forbid_ me? He couldn't stop me from doing anything! I was my own person! I had spent too long in captivity and here he was saying that he would forbid me? No way. "Sherlock, don't even try that. _Don't_. _Even_. If you're saying that we're attracted to each other, say it directly, do not imply it. But do _not_ forbid me from doing anything. I worked hard for my freedom. I killed people for my freedom. I'm not giving it away to you." I hissed and then went into the kitchen, since the kettle had boiled.

Pouring the scalding water into the mugs and inhaling the strong smell of the coffee overpowering the tea, I shut out the anger and the emptiness. It wouldn't help me. It would merely trouble my mind and obscure answers. And then I realized what I said. _If you're saying that we're attracted to each other, say it directly, do not imply it_. Oh God, why? (**Haha, imagine the meme**) My anger must have _really_ clouded my mind when I said that. Stupid… I sighed and shook my head. No point in fretting now. It had been said. Might as well make it seem like I had meant to say it. I picked up the mugs of tea and coffee and walked back into the living room, Sherlock's eyes upon me at once.

"I am attracted to you." Were the first words out of his mouth. I nearly dropped the mugs out of shock. He was good at this. How long had we known each other? Two days? I checked my watch, taking care not to spill any of the hot beverages in my hands. No, it was officially three now. I nodded and placed Sherlock's coffee upon the table next to him. I then placed my tea beside it. "And I am attracted to you too." I replied bluntly and sat on the arm of the couch, directly by Sherlock's head.

I crossed my arms and waited silently for something to happen. Nothing did, for a while. "Ugh, I need another nicotine patch." Sherlock grumbled from beside me quietly. I looked down and saw that he had his hands together like a prayer below his chin. His pupils were slightly dilated because of the effects of the patches. I sighed softly and lifted Sherlock's head. He didn't move it out of my grasp. I slid myself onto the cushions and then lowered his head back on my lap. I then began to massage his head. His hair. Was. So. Soft.

For the next ten minutes, I massaged his head. Every now and then, he'd mumble something unintelligible but he didn't tell me to stop. It was when I found a spot at the back of head, near the base of the skull where the spinal cord connected, that he groaned. I froze and stared down at him. "Don't stop." Sherlock murmured, his eyes still closed. I continued and I noticed his breaths getting laboured and his head tipping back in delight. I then realized that I had found one of Sherlock's turn on spots. I felt incredibly naughty and I smirked as I worked my fingers in even deeper. He let out a growl, animalistic and frightening, and his eyes flew open.

Immediately we held eye contact and I stared down at him. We didn't blink for a while; I think we forgot how to. His top two buttons were undone, the collar spread out and showing milky white skin just begging to be kissed. _Be quiet, insolent mind. I am a sociopath. I am serious. Why so serious? Oh God, I'm mad too._ I bit my lip near the left corner with my second incisor. He noticed and Sherlock stared at my mouth for what felt like days. It was only forty seconds. He straightened up and leaned his left elbow on the arm of the couch. Sherlock watched me intensely. "Ya know, I'll be needing this as my bed soon." I murmured and his gaze automatically settled on my lips again. Feeling conscious of them, I tried not to move them unnecessarily. Unfortunately, my lips felt rather dry at that moment. I licked them without thinking and Sherlock looked about ready to assault me then and there. But John saved me. Question is; did I want to be saved?

"We'll resume this another time, I'm sure." Sherlock purred in my ear and I nodded, feeling a little breathless. I then pushed Sherlock away gently and got out of the seat, grabbing my tea as I did so. I sat on the arm of the chair again while Sherlock lowered his head back to where it was. Absent-mindedly, I began playing with his hair again. Particularly the little curls at the front. They just kept pinging back into place. (**:3**) Sherlock raised his arm and clenched his fists, circulating the effects. He then exhaled loudly, making me smirk a little. "What are you doing?" John said as he walked in. He appeared a little annoyed but I didn't really care. Not when I had a detective that needed kissing in the next twenty four hours.

"Nicotine patch." Sherlock explained, his deep voice shaking me to my core. He raised his sleeve a little more to show the three on his forearm. "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for the brain work-k." He put emphasis on the 'k' and I just sipped more of my tea.  
"It's good news for breathing." John countered seriously. John didn't crack many jokes, I noticed.  
"Ugh, breathing. Breathing's boring." John limped over to us. He seemed to just notice the quantity of nicotine patches Sherlock had on his arm. Perhaps I would try nicotine patches. Maybe they'd help. Hmm. "Is that… three patches?" John asked incredously. It sounded like three was unhealthy. All the more reason to try it then.

"It's a three-patch problem." Sherlock retorted, bringing his hands back into the steeple below his chin. He then closed his eyes. My eyelids were beginning to droop but I refused to sleep. John noticed, of course, him being a doctor and all. "You should sleep, Natalia." Sherlock's eyes opened.

I shook my head. "I'm fine. I don't like to sleep during a case." I reasoned. No use of course. Not when I've got John _and_ Sherlock on my back. Yes, Sherlock turned on me too. The audacity of the man. Hmph. "Take my bed." Sherlock murmured and I looked at him with a slight frown on my face.  
"No, I'm a couch sleeper. So that means that you've got to move or I won't sleep." He seemed to be having an internal dilemma.

In the end, I actually forced him to stay on the couch. John had watched on in amusement, disapproval and drowsiness. It would seem that he was growing tiresome as well. "Well…?" He asked Sherlock. Said man remained still, not even twitching. Seemed like he had crept into the depths of his mind. I had once heard him talking to himself, referring to it as a 'Mind Palace'. It amused me. Mine was just a database.

"You asked me to come, I'm assuming it's important." John was rather impatient now. Another second and then Sherlock jerked back into reality with a small gasp. He must have been pretty deep in his mind. "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?" John looked like he was controlling himself.  
"My phone?"  
"Don't want to use mine; always a chance that my number will be recognised. It's on the website." Sherlock informed him. John didn't seem to care.  
"What about Natalia's?" I smiled.  
"Out of battery. I broke the charger trying to turn it into a multi-purpose charger." I lied easily. The truth was that I didn't like anyone using my phone. I only used it when necessary. Sherlock didn't even ask to use my phone anyway.  
"Mrs Hudson's got a phone." He said, looking at the staircase that would no doubt lead to the lovely landlady. Oh, alliteration. I do love me a bit of alliteration. "She's downstairs. I shouted, but she didn't hear."

"I was the other side of London." John told him angrily.  
"There was no hurry." There was a moment of silence between us all. Eventually, John pulled his phone out of his pocket, albeit a little crossly, and held it out. "Here." He said shortly. Sherlock's right hand moved away from the steeple and outstretched, his eyes still closed. John begrudgingly slapped it into his hand and he went to stand by the fireplace.

"So, what's this about – the case?" John inquired.  
"Her case…" Sherlock muttered. I guess we still had a lot to talk about between the three of us concerning that case. John raised an eyebrow. "_Her_ case?"  
"Her suitcase, yes, obviously." By now, it was getting very difficult to keep my eyes open. It was then that I remembered I hadn't actually slept in two weeks. Damn it, sleeping at Scotland Yard was never easy. I hadn't even realised that I hadn't really been sleeping. Just meditating. My childhood had left me weak when it came to simple obstacles. Things such as sleep or colds would knock me down and out for a few days. "The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."  
"Okay, he took her case. So?"

"It's no use, there's no other way. What do you think, Natalia?" I forced my eyelids to stay open with willpower alone. I cleared my throat and nodded.  
"We'll have to risk it." Sherlock didn't seem to notice, thank God. I don't think John did either.  
"On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text." Sherlock spoke louder to John. John seemed to find the idea laughable. Sherlock offered the phone out again, keeping his eyes glued on the ceiling. "You brought me here… to send a text."  
"Text, yes. The number on my desk." Sherlock ignored John's rising anger levels.

John smiled humourlessly to himself and got up and grabbed the phone. He then looked around suspiciously, peering anxiously out of the window. I narrowed my eyes. "What's wrong?" I asked curiously, a slight tinge of foreboding in my voice. John sort of shrugged.  
"Just met a friend of yours. Both of yours, I mean." I frowned.  
"A Friend?" Sherlock said with surprise and faint horror.  
"An enemy." He immediately calmed down.  
"Oh. Which one?" He asked evenly. I chuckled softly. Damn it, I was _tired_. And it was _hot_ in here. I stood up, taking care not to show how unsteady I was on my feet to my flatmates. "I'll be back in a while. Going outside." I said simply. John nodded.

"Don't go outside." Sherlock warned me. Both John and I looked at him. "Trust me." I swallowed. As much as I knew that something would happen, my gut told me two things: 1) If I didn't get outside soon, I would pass out from over-exhaustion. 2) If anything bad happened to me, it wasn't going to be huge. A simple interrogation, worst case scenario. "Sherlock, if I don't get outside in the next three minutes, I'm going to pass out." I explained and then left before he could reply.

The night was cold and I welcomed the air on my bare arms with a sigh. It was simply too hot inside. I exhaled and my breath fogged ever so slightly. Damn detective in there, he was steaming up the room with his mere presence. _Okay, since when did I turn fan girl over Sherlock Holmes?_ Since he nearly kissed me and I realized my immediate attraction to him, that's when. To be precise, it was three days ago. Stupid Holmes. I could _feel_ my intelligence diminishing with the less sleep I had. But sleep was a waste of time. Why sleep when I could be thinking or chasing or mocking?

My phone began to ring and I considered leaving it. Tempting. But I pulled it out anyway and looked at the ID. _Private caller_. I cocked an eyebrow. Shrugging since I had nothing to lose, I pressed the button and placed the phone to my ear. "Hello?" I asked with a slight foreboding.  
"Miss Heather, do you see camera to your right at the top of the building corner?" I sighed and glanced up. There it was, staring right at me.  
"Indeed I do, Mycroft. You've played this game with me before." I explained with annoyance. He always used the same trick. It was tiresome. He needed new illusions and secrets. He sighed on the other side of the line.  
"Natalia, you know that it irks me so when you see through my plans." He reprimanded me gently, "Get into the car and we can speak civilly." I rolled my eyes. Always the same. A black car pulled up.  
"Mycroft, I don't particularly care at the moment. I'm exhausted and right now, you're the person I least want to talk to." I nearly snapped but I managed to restrain myself. He chuckled darkly at my impoliteness. But I didn't particularly care, as I said before. "Natalia, get in." He urged, his tone sounding rather final.  
"Mycroft. The answer is _no_." A hand on my shoulder alerted me and I spun around, my phone suddenly disappearing from my own hand.

Sherlock stood with his coat and scarf on and he looked down at me emotionlessly. He then pressed the _End Call_ button and returned my phone. "John is staying home tonight. I've had a breakthrough. How do you feel about dinner?" I cocked an eyebrow. This most certainly was not a date. At least, it wasn't intended to be a date. I shrugged and nodded anyway. I then turned to the black car. But it was gone.

"So, where _are_ we going?" I asked as we walked down the street. Sherlock did not look at me as we turned a corner.  
"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here." He replied. A cold wind blew and I shivered a little, cursing myself on not going back inside to grab a jacket quickly. I just prayed that I wouldn't fall asleep during dinner or chasing our target. "You've arranged to meet the murderer, haven't you? Or you've at least tempted the murderer to arrive. He's either stupid or he's brilliant." I assumed that he had text the phone of Jennifer Wilson since when we had searched the suitcase before, we found no phone. Sherlock nodded approvingly. "Precisely. I love the brilliant ones. They're all so desperate to get caught."  
"Mm, appreciation. Applause. The glory, that is what the brilliant criminals crave." Sherlock looked down at me interest and I pretended not to notice.

"This is his hunting ground." I muttered, turning around to look behind us, "Right here in the heart of the city. Who's to say he isn't watching us now?" A chill ran down my spine and it wasn't because of the sudden gust of wind.  
"Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything." Sherlock spoke darkly, "Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go." He suddenly grabbed at his head, as though forcing thoughts into it. "Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them?"  
"Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?"  
"Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" My brain was beginning to go dead, thanks to my lack of rest.  
"I can't think right now. Do you know?" Sherlock hesitated for a moment.  
"Haven't the faintest. Hungry?" He asked and I nodded. We crossed the street and we ended up in front of a nice looking restaurant. 28 Northumberland Street.

Sherlock opened the door for me and gestured for me to enter first. I did so and looked around. It was rather cosy and had a romantic atmosphere, especially with the dimly lit candles and the darkness outside. "Thank you, Billy." Sherlock said to a waiter who gestured to the table by the large window. Sherlock removed his coat and scarf and sat in the seat that was parallel to the window so that he could look out without it seeming suspicious. I, unfortunately, would have to crane my neck. Something that would not only hurt but draw attention to us.

"22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it." Sherlock said as he peered out.  
"I can't keep my eyes on it; I'm making us seem inconspicuous by not doing as I'm told." I informed him and he grinned for a moment. "It would be amusing if he came over and knocked, however. But then, he'd have to be mad in order to do that."  
"He _has_ killed four people." Sherlock said deeply and then looked at me intensely. I shrugged a little and cricked my neck again. "Is your neck causing you pain still?" He queried. I nodded.  
"It always has. Never slept on a bed in my life, remember? I don't plan on doing so in the near future."  
"Not even in hospital?"  
"Never been to a hospital."

"Sherlock…" A rather chubby man approached us with a large beard, hair tied back and a patterned tie. His tie wasn't too bad actually, compared to Mike's Gryffindor tie. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free." He shook Sherlock's hand and then passed us menus. "On the house, for you and for your date." I said nothing. Neither did Sherlock surprisingly.  
"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked me and I looked at him.  
"This man got me off a murder charge." The larger man spoke before I could answer Sherlock. Sherlock pointed at him.  
"This is Angelo. Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade, at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, that Angelo was in a different part of town, house-breaking." I chuckled softly.  
"He cleared my name." Angelo said proudly.  
"I cleared it a bit." Sherlock correct him.

"Anything happening opposite?" He asked Angelo without looking at him.  
"Nothing." He replied and then looked at me, "But of this man, I'd have gone to prison."  
"You _did_ go to prison." Sherlock again amended him. Angelo took no notice.  
"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic." He said huskily and I chuckled once more. Angelo moved off and I stared at the menu without seeing it, a smile playing on my mouth.

Sherlock glanced at me. "What?" He asked and then looked outside again. I shook my head, my smile intensifying.  
"It doesn't matter." I waved it off but he pressed on anyway.  
"No, tell me." I just shrugged sheepishly, my lips tugging a bit more until it was small grin.  
"I never really guessed that you, Sherlock Holmes, would help so many people. Mrs Hudson, Angelo, who else?" He looked at me sharply.  
"If you're implying that I'm a hero, you can stop right there." My grin turned back to a soft sympathetic smile.  
"I know how it feels, Sherlock." I whispered and patted his hand before leaning back to allow Angelo to place the candle on the table.

"You may as well eat. We might have a long wait." Sherlock said, placing his menu on the other side of the small table. I raised an eyebrow. "Our rice can't have been very filling." He continued.  
"No, it wasn't. I know for a fact that you're hungry. If you won't eat, I won't. Simple as." I replied stubbornly. He raised an eyebrow at me. I noticed he was tapping the table in frustration and impatience. I put my hand over it to quell his fidgets. It seemed to work. "Calm down, Sherlock. He'll be here soon." I reassured him and I was surprised when he nodded and relaxed in his seat, even turning to face the right way. I thought he would order food but he didn't. Instead, he placed his chin in his right hand, not moving his left since my hand was still resting upon it, and stared at me. Quite obviously I might add.

Staring contests have always been fun. This one was particularly thrilling. It involved making movements with our free hand (we had yet to part our hands) to try and make the other blink. I had almost forgotten our mission and I knew that Sherlock ached to look at the road. But his stubborn nature prevented him from doing so. He had to win, apparently. It started off with innocent clicks in front of eyes, waving hands in front of each other and pinching. It then turned to more serious stuff. Like poking each other's neck, studying each other's faces with our hands and touching each other's hair. I felt particularly evil when I placed my hand over his turn on spot and massaged it. He nearly closed his eyes, _nearly_, but still his stare remained fixed on me.

I don't really know if I have a turn on spot. I had never engaged in willing sex with someone so I had no way of knowing. I had a feeling, however, that Sherlock would find it. Or them, if there was more than one. So, when Sherlock dragged his index finger lightly up my neck, I almost gasped. His finger slid from my left collar bone, up my neck, along my jawline and ended at the pressure point just beside my earlobe. He'd found two turn on spots in one go; the collar bone and the pressure point. Typical. He's good at everything. He's probably the best there ever was at sex too. Damn…

"That was just unfair." I groaned as I broke eye contact. He grinned feverishly and I couldn't help but return it. "You're a bully." I complained childishly and crossed my arms, avoiding eye contact.  
"It's only fair." He retorted. I cocked an eyebrow.  
"How was that fair, pray tell?" His grin turned into a smirk. Oh God, he's smirking now… Unfair. Completely unfair.  
"You found my spot. I've found yours." Damn it.  
"You found _two_. I ought to know where another one is. You know, to even it out a little." He shook his head with amusement. "And your stupid smirk isn't helping me at all. Can't you go back to being strong and silent? You being strong, silent, sexy _and_ sarcastic is too much." His smirk intensified and he winked at me. I groaned and put my head in my arms. "This is going to be a long night." I muttered to myself and Sherlock chuckled.

**Dun, dun, dunn… Yeah, how was that? I've no idea why I'm asking you because I'm completing this story anyway and then posting it all online, just like Chocolate Eyes. Which I've yet to make oneshots for. I'll finish Immortality and this fic first, and then I'll focus on those. And Let The Monster Rise will be like spare time thing since Asreil is in America and I'm in Britain. Not to mention she works and I learn xD. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it. Cheers folks. Adios. **

**Luna**


	5. Chapter 5

"Look across the street." I did as Sherlock asked, now back to being professional and serious, and looked behind me, "Taxi. It's stopped." And so it had. "Nobody getting in and nobody getting out." It was true. The taxi was situated at 22 Northumberland Street but it did not move. I could not fully see the driver or the passenger.  
"Why a taxi?" I whispered, as though worried he would hear us, and then realized it. "Oh, that's clever…" Apparently, Sherlock had also come with the same conclusion.  
"That's him." He replied and I nodded. "Don't stare." He suddenly warned me. I looked at him.  
"You're staring. You _told_ me to look." I reminded him but he didn't seem to hear me. At least, not the last comment. Selective hearing, I reckon. Stupid cocky bugger. "We can't both stare." He remarked and then grabbed his jacket. "Come, Natalia." He said when he looked down at me. And when he did, I saw the joy in his eyes.

We exited the building quickly, Sherlock still pulling his coat on. I definitely regretted not wearing a jacket. It was _freezing_. And it felt like it was beginning to rain. May have been my imagination actually. I could now see the passenger clearly and I looked at him. He appeared to be in his twenties and had dark hair. He peered around a little and then he turned and his gaze rested on us. He then settled back in his seat and the taxi moved. "Now, Sherlock!" I shouted and we raced across the road.

We hit a car and had to climb over the bonnet but neither of us apologised, instead keeping our eyes fixed on the taxi that we now would never catch up to. I looked to Sherlock for a plan. "Ideas?" He hunched over a little and raised his hands, lowering his head. He then began muttering to himself. I didn't listen; I was trying to figure out where the taxi would end up so that we could intercept it.

Sherlock looked up and his gaze fell on a man unlocking a door. He sprang into action and raced across the road, me not far behind him. He pulled the man out of the way, ignoring the 'Oi!' and we bolted up the stairs inside. We came to _even more_ stairs that went in a spiral and we sprinted up those too. Damn, I hate stairs. We came to a door leading to outside. It was very dark and it was difficult to see. We ran across the top of the building and then vaulted over a small metal fence.

My legs were beginning to tire as I followed Sherlock across the roof. He leaped without a second thought to the next roof and I did so as well. Gliding through the air over a very high drop. Wheee. I landed rather gracefully actually, surprising me.

More stairs. Ugh. I don't know whether you could tell but stairs really irked me. Thankfully, we were descending these stairs. I nearly tripped a few times in my rush to get to the bottom but I managed to stay upright, thank the Lord. Oh, yay, a drop. Both Sherlock and I dropped quickly and we continued sprinting. The rest of the chase seemed to be just pathway and alleys. I think. And then, there it was. The taxi drove past the mouth of the alley and I cursed. "This way!" Sherlock shouted back to me and I followed him, going the opposite way to the taxi.

Run, run, run, run, run – CAR. Sherlock hit the car and it stopped abruptly. "Police, open her up!" Sherlock ordered and I must say, it amused me. Sherlock threw open the door while gasping for breath and immediately we were both disappointed.

Completely wrong. "No…" Sherlock cursed quietly.  
"Teeth, tan. What, Californian?" I asked him, gulping in breaths. Damn stairs. They really knock the breath out of me. Uh oh, after this I'm going to be dead on my feet. What a pain. I looked at his luggage. No, he was from LA, Santa Monica and judging by the label, he had just arrived in London. Sherlock shook his head. "LA, Santa Monica." I nodded in agreement as our previous suspect stared at us in confusion. I placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as we caught our breaths still. "Probably your first trip to London, right?" I assumed. He nodded slowly, still trying to work out what we were really talking about.  
"Going by your final destination and the cabbie's route." Sherlock continued for me.  
"Sorry, are you guys the police?" The American man asked us, his accent very strong. I grinned for a moment. _You could say that_. I glanced at the cabbie driver.

He was old and he looked very tired. His hat was pulled over his face and his spectacles glinted in the lights from the street lamps. But even from where I was standing, I could see his grey eyes on me and the intelligence behind them. Something about him screamed dangerous. I ignored the shiver running down my spine and turned back to the passenger and Sherlock.

"Yeah. Everything alright?" Sherlock confirmed and flashed some sort of ID at him. The man seemed very amused and he grinned, his eyes glinting with mirth.  
"Yeah." He replied, his gaze alternating between the two of us. Sherlock and I stood still for another few moments and we both smiled.  
"Welcome to London." Sherlock said and then we walked off, shutting his door behind us.

Sherlock walked ahead and then we stopped about a hundred yards from the taxi still parked. "So, really, it was just a taxi that happened to stop." I summarised with disappointment in my voice. Sherlock nodded. "Basically." Sherlock said, obviously irritated as well.  
"Not the murderer." _Least not the passenger_. The man's eyes still fresh in my mind confused me and also worried me. I considered telling Sherlock for a moment but I left it. Though my gut told me that there was something more to it.

"Not the murderer, no." Sherlock's voice was definitely angry.  
"Wrong country, good alibi." I continued. Sherlock looked tempted to go punch something.  
"As they go." He gritted out through bared teeth. I sighed and shook my head. Stupid passenger. I then noticed the ID still in Sherlock's hand.

"Hey, where did you get this?" I asked, picking up his hand and turning it over so that I could see it. I didn't let go of his hand because I noticed that neither of us were wearing gloves for once. I examined the ID. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?" I read aloud with an amused tone. He seemed a _little_ sheepish.  
"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying." I grinned and pulled something out of my own pocket. He frowned and grabbed my hand, doing the same I had been doing to his. As in, not letting go of it. Sherlock then grinned and laughed loudly. "Sergeant Sally Donovan."  
"I pickpocket her when she's annoying." I winked and he dropped my hand, instead putting an arm around my shoulder. This was _weird_. But nice. I had never received a hug before. This was something new. It may not have been an actual hug but it was close to it and I had never had much contact with people.

Something occurred to me and I broke into a grin. Sherlock looked down at me with a slight frown. "What?" I shook my head a little.  
"Nothing, just… 'Welcome to London'." I repeated his previous line and he began to chuckle too. Sherlock looked down the street and I did so too. The American man was talking to a _real _police officer, high-visible jacket and everything, and pointing at us, no doubt complaining or reporting our behaviour despite the ID. "Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.  
"Ready when you are." I returned one of my own and he clapped me on the back and lowered his arm. We began to jog home.

I shut the door behind me, careful not to slam it. John and Mrs Hudson were probably asleep by now. I sighed happily at the warmth and rubbed my arms. Sherlock put his scarf on a peg and his coat on the nool post of the stairs. He looked back at me and he frowned a little. "Why weren't you wearing a coat?" He inquired and I grinned somewhat sheepishly.  
"I went outside _for_ the cold. Then you dragged me off to a non-existent dinner and a 'high-speed chase'. I hardly had any time to grab a jacket." I explained with a slightly accusing tone, but still in a joking manner. He tilted his head.  
"You could have said something." I just shrugged and continued breathing heavily. I then leant against the wall and Sherlock leant next to me.  
"I would say that that was one of the most ridiculous things I've ever done, but I've done a lot more ridiculous things than that." I grinned as I remembered some of them.  
"Such as?"  
"Such as when I dropped a tuba on a criminal's head and kicked him around in a fountain." I replied. We burst into laughter. The memory was still fresh in my mind and the criminal has a vendetta against me now. Still, all's well that ends well.

Mrs Hudson came into view. I smiled at her but she didn't return it. She looked distraught. I frowned. "Mrs Hudson, whatever's the matter?" She sniffed and then looked at Sherlock.  
"Sherlock, what have you done?" She accused with anxiety and fright.  
"Mrs Hudson…"  
"Upstairs." She replied. Sherlock and I looked at each other and then dashed up the stairs.

We pushed open the door rapidly and found Lestrade lounging in an arm chair looking rather proud of himself. There were people all through the flat, inspecting different items and books, looking behind things and looking under things. "What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded immediately.  
"Well, I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid."  
"Could have fooled me." I hissed at him and he shook his head.  
"Natalia, what are you even doing here? Go home."  
"I _live_ here, moron!" I shouted and he frowned.  
"What? When did this-." Sherlock cut across.

"You can't just break into our flat." Sherlock reminded him angrily.  
"You can't withhold evidence – and I didn't _break_ into your flat." Lestrade added, still glancing at me with confusion. Sherlock threw up his hands in irritation.  
"What do you call this, then?" He yelled.  
"It's a drugs bust." _What the actual hell?_

"A drugs bust? Are you bloody serious? Lestrade, you are just infinitely stupid. In so many bloody ways!" I screamed at him. What a _stupid_ man. He pointed his finger at me.  
"And what do you mean, you _live_ here now? What happened to your old house?" I rolled my eyes and ran a hand through my hair.  
"I was sleeping at the station, Lestrade." I informed him as though I was speaking to an idiot. Which I was. He frowned and shook his head.

"No, that can't be right… We lock all of the doors. I usually lock the doors when you're right beside me!" He exclaimed and I laughed humourlessly.  
"I'm a high-functioning sociopath. I easily found my way in without triggering alarms and I wiped the film. Honestly, 'I'm not stupid'. See why I don't believe you?" I used the air quotes when repeating his claim before. Lestrade shook his head again and then he looked between Sherlock and I.

"And are you two together? Nat, I told you he was dangerous and you _move in with him_." This had gone far enough.  
"Shut up! Just shut up! For god's sake, Lestrade, you assigned me as his assistant! You're just inconceivable! You _know_ how difficult it is for me to trust people and you _know_ that you're desperate for this criminal to be caught. There is no point in this _whatsoever_." I hissed at him and jabbed my finger at him, emphasizing every 'you'.

Sherlock clenched his fists. "I'm not your sniffer dog and Natalia isn't your property." He growled at the Detective Inspector. Honestly, it's a wonder that Lestrade even made the job. The majority of the cases he took on were solved by Sherlock or myself. "No, Anderon's my sniffer dog." Lestrade replied, not even twitching, "And actually, she is." Time stood still. The flat was silent.

"… What?" I whispered and he lowered his eyes, refusing eye contact. "Lestrade, look at me." He didn't. "LOOK AT ME!" I screamed and he finally did. His eyes were filled with regret but I seriously did not care. "I'm your _property_?" He swallowed thickly. "How am I your _property_?" Lestrade didn't look away but he didn't answer. "Answer me, god damn it!" I felt like crying. A sociopath? Crying? I've never heard of it. But I really felt like sobbing my pathetic human heart out.

"When you were kidnapped by the terrorists, we made a deal with them." Lestrade mumbled, "Your talents were too good to waste. We had to have you back." I looked at him incredously. "You were due for release after three months. Three months was the earliest we could get you out. You escaped after two, however. We had to give them twice the amount of money because of it."  
"You're _blaming_ me?" I simply couldn't believe my ears. This man was just… Ugh!  
"No, I'm not. We still got you. If it weren't for you, many people would have died, been kidnapped or raped or whatever." Didn't make me feel _any_ better.

"So, you… _bought_ me? I was like merchandise on a shelf and you _bought_ me. I am a HUMAN BEING despite my sociopathic tendencies. I have _rights_. I can't believe you just… I don't…" I was at a complete loss for words. I wasn't my own person. I was owned by someone else. Owned by Lestrade, no less. Owned by that insufferable man who at least had the decency to tell me the truth and look me in the eye when he told it. "Natalia, I'm sorry, I'm so-."  
"No." I cut him off coldly. I then looked around the room.

Everyone was staring at me. Stupid people. They took their freedom for granted. Some stared at me in sorrow, some in irritation. Only Sherlock watched me emotionlessly. But I had a feeling that murderous thoughts were running through his mind. Anderson shook his head and Sally made eye contact with him. "Dramatic…" I saw her whisper. My eyes narrowed and I stalked over to her.  
"You want to be _bought_ like a slave? Do you want your life to be a lie? No? Then shut the hell up and stay _away_ from _me._" I then turned and surveyed everyone around me. "I don't want your pity." I sneered, "I'm leaving the case."

"No, Natalia, wait…"  
"NO!" I shrieked and ran out of the door, nearly barrelling into Mrs Hudson.  
"What's wrong, dear?" She asked and I ignored her, tears spilling over my eyes. Tears that had been spilt too recently. I thundered down the stairs but kept my voice silent. My throat had to be strong to let out the screams. "Your taxi's down there, Natalia." She called from the top of the stairway and I froze. I didn't order a taxi. In my maddened state, I didn't care. That taxi could get me away from the horrific situation upstairs. "Natalia! Come back." I heard Sherlock shout but I continued on. I was about to open the door when Sherlock came down the stairs.

"Natalia…" He murmured and I turned away, hand still on the door handle. No way was I facing Sherlock now. "Natalia, come back upstairs. Please." I shook my head fervently and I heard him sigh softly. I then felt hands on my shoulders and he turned me around himself. He stooped his head a little. "We'll take this to court. We'll abolish the ownership. We'll free you. _I'll_ free you." He said passionately, shaking my shoulders vigorously. I gulped and shook my head. He frowned.  
"What's the point, Sherlock? At least ten years of my life haven't been my own. I thought I was free, I thought I was my own person. I thought that I could do what I want because I could do it, no questions asked. But now…" I swallowed and averted my eyes.  
"Natalia." Sherlock whispered, his voice giving me shivers. I peered up at him.

We stared at each other. I noticed that on one of his eyes, he had a little spot in his blue iris. Almost like a freckle, only darker in colour. "I have to go." I whispered.  
"Will you come back?" He asked, almost desperately.  
"Of course I will." I replied. He nodded and went back upstairs. I didn't look back when I opened the door and exited 221B Baker Street.

Sure enough, there was a taxi waiting for me at the kerb. I walked over to it a little suspiciously. The window rolled down and there he was. The man from the taxi before. The man with the frighteningly intelligent eyes.

**Sherlock's POV** **(Oh, a new perspective! Only one I'm doing though ;) )**

Sherlock looked out of the window as Natalia walked up to the taxi. He frowned at it. Neither of them had dialled for a taxi. It just didn't make sense. "Sherlock…" Sherlock looked away from the window for a moment to gaze at John. "It's… right in front of 221B Baker Street." John informed him uneasily. He looked back at Natalia and even from the window he could see her tense up. Sherlock then walked over and looked at the computer screen. So it was. Either Natalia had it, or… _Who do we trust, even if we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? _His phone made a noise and he opened the text absentmindedly.

_I have her. _

Immediately, Sherlock flew into action. He raced back to the window to see Natalia getting in to the taxi, serenity on her face. But he could see the fear hidden behind the mask. "We've got him!" He shouted and dashed down the stairs. He threw on his coat and scarf and bolted over to the door. Just before he opened it, he remembered what had taken place in front of it not even five minutes ago. He gulped when he thought about what would happen if Natalia didn't come back. What it would mean. _No. I'm getting her back._

John was suddenly right behind him, without his crutch. "You had better be right about this, Sherlock…" He muttered, pulling on his coat.

**Natalia's gone with the cab driver! Oh em gee! We'll find out what happens next chapter! Does Natalia survive? Or does she take the pill before they can rescue her? I'll just let you know now; there WILL be something unexpected and sad happening next chapter. But is it Natalia's death? Am I being a mean author? Mua ha ha haaa, that was my intention. Cheers folks. Adios. **

**Luna**


	6. Chapter 6

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. How fitting." I complimented as the cab driver opened the door.  
"Isn't it?" He replied, his face betraying nothing. I tilted my head a little.  
"I presume it is open?" I questioned, a little sarcastically. He nodded.  
"Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie – you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out." I cocked an eyebrow.

"Oh, I'm sure many people will be flocking to the job now." I replied cynically but he did not respond. So, I'll fill you in quickly: The cabbie had taken me from 221B Baker Street, claiming he would talk to me and then I'd kill myself. Charming, isn't it? The photo pinned to his dashboard was of two children and a woman cut out of the photo, no doubt the mother. He was a difficult man to read but I figured when I could see him properly, I would observe him. I'd wait until the last moment to, however. Just to add some tension.

"You just walk your victims in? How?" I inquired. Most probably physical force. In response, he raised a pistol at me. I rolled my eyes. "Oh… Dull." I taunted him. I saw a flicker of anger but nothing else. He was good at controlling his emotions. As if to reassure me, he added: "Don't worry. It gets better." I surveyed him.  
"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint."  
"I don't." He denied, "It's much better than that." He then lowered his gun. "I don't need this with you. 'Cause you'll follow me." It irked me that he knew my need for answers. How did he know me so intricately? It angered me but I ignored it. He had also mentioned that I 'had a fan'. Both Sherlock and I, I mean. Somebody was interested in us and our behaviour. It didn't flatter me at all; I had a foreboding feeling that this 'fan' was not someone on the side of the police. I wasn't either, really, but I had a feeling they were more of a criminal.

The cabbie driver _graciously_ opened the door for me and I stepped into the darkness. He flicked on the lights and I was mildly impressed at the place. Long rows of tables pulled together. It appeared to be a meeting room of some sort. "Well, what do you think?" He asked me, as if wanting my opinion on a new house, "It's up to you. You're the one who's going to die here." He explained more thoroughly.  
"Oh, splendid." I remarked, "The walls could do with a splash of colour though." He sniggered a little. I then turned back to him. "I'm not going to die in here. I'm not." I said matter-of-factly.  
"That's what they all say." He walked forwards a little and gestured to the table, "Shall we talk?" He pulled out a chair and then looked at me. I nodded slightly and he sat in his own chair. I pulled out my own and sat opposite him.

"Bit risky, wasn't it? Taking me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen, an Army Doctor and a fellow consulting detective, whom I have no doubt would have been your _original_ target." I spoke with an eyebrow raised. "They're not _that_ stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you." I added. He seemed to fidget in his seat. It appeared to be a habit of his.

"You call that a risk? Nah… This… is as risk." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cylinder with a pill inside of it. I observed it. It didn't appear dangerous. Then again, no pills do. But this pill was no doubt poison. "Oh, I like this bit." He continued, watching me intensely. "'Cause you don't get it yet, do ya?" He was taunting me. Damn him. I looked back up at him. "But you're about to. I just have to do this…" And he reached into his other pocket and pulled out another. They both contained a pill that appeared identical. "Weren't expecting that, were ya?" My patience was wearing thin but I didn't let it show. I merely sat with my hands clasped together as I lounged back in the seat. "Oh, you're gonna love this…" He jeered.  
"Love what?" I replied immediately. He leaned back in his seat casually.

"Natalia Heathers… look at you. Here in the flesh. Those images of you and your history, your fan told me about them." I scoffed.  
"My fan?"  
"You're brilliant." He looked at me with admiration. I watched him very closely. No, it was genuine admiration. That surprised me. "You are a proper genius. Kidnapped by terrorists and thought your way out." He used a different 'thought' to John had. He had said 'fought'. The cabbie was correct. I didn't fight my way out. I _thought_ my way out. Using strategic planning and observing the comings and goings and the appearances of my captors. I could find out what made them tick easily. "That is proper thinking… Between you and me sitting here, why can't people think?" He seemed irritated that people were just plain stupid sometimes, "Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?" I could see tears welling up in his eyes and his bitterness was melting into his voice and onto his face. I found his weak spot.  
"Oh, I see… So you're a proper genius too." I nearly laughed. This man _was_ intelligent. But telling him that he wasn't would anger him. It had the opposite effect.  
"Don't look it, do I?" He replied.

"Funny little man driving a cab. But you'll know better in a minute." He confirmed, "Chances are it'll be the last thing you _ever_ know." Yes, he was bitter now.  
"Okay, two bottles. Explain." I turned our attention back to the substances inside the tiny jars.  
"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle." He clarified, "You take the pill from the good bottle, you live. You take the pill from the bad bottle," He paused, "You die." He announced the last two words in such a positive tone it almost made me smirk.

"Both bottles are of course identical."  
"In every way."  
"And you know which is which."  
"Of course _I_ know."  
"But I don't."  
"Wouldn't be a game if _you_ knew – you're the one who chooses." Oh, so it's a _game_. I like games. Chess was one of my favourites. But this type of game… Oh, I couldn't live without these.

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?" I probed him further.  
"I haven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle _you_ choose, I take the pill from the other one." Oh… _Interesting_… "And then together, we take our medicine." Okay, I couldn't help it. I began to grin. This was just so exciting. "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." I tilted my head, taking in the situation. "Didn't expect that, did you, Miss Heathers?" I inhaled and exhaled loudly.

"This is what you do the rest of them, isn't it? You gave them a choice."  
"And now I'm giving _you_ one."  
"And they made the wrong choice, didn't they." I stated more than asked, "They picked the wrong pill." And then I looked up at him again, "Or perhaps they took the right pill. And you killed them anyway." He seemed a little surprised that I had worked it out but he merely shrugged.  
"The owner of the game owns the rules." I cocked an eyebrow, "You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game."  
"Technically, it's not _actually_ a game. It's really just chance and how high Lady Luck holds us in her favours." I corrected. He took no notice.  
"I've played four times alive. It's not chance, Miss Heathers – It's chess." No, it really isn't. "It's a game of chess, with one move and one survivor. And this, _this_… is the move." He was rather dramatic.

He pushed the bottle on my right forward first, licking his top as he did it. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one."

My hand twitched a little. I ignored it. "Are you ready yet?" I looked at him. He was eager to know my choice but he hid it well. "Ready to play?"  
"Play what? It's a 50:50 chance." I reminded him with a dark tone.  
"You're not playing the numbers – you're playing _me_." He prompted me. His patience seemed to be running out. "Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff or a double bluff?" I noticed then that his hands were rested on the table, ready to react in case I choose to run or attack. But where's the fun in that?

"Or a _triple_ bluff?" He hissed excitedly. I shook my head a little.  
"It's still just chance." He looked unconvinced. Though, it was his game. He could change the rules and the game at any given time. "Four people, in a row? It's not chance."  
"Luck." I snapped.  
"It's genius!" He complimented himself, "I know how people think." I rolled my eyes in irritation. Of _course_ he did. "I know how people think _I_ think. I can see it all like a map inside my head." He continued with a smirk. Oh, how incredible. You have a map. I have a database. Sherlock has a mind palace. What's next, an instruction manual?

"Everyone's so stupid, even you."  
"Sorry, but not even ten minutes ago, you were complimenting me on my genius. That's a little contradicting, don't you think?" I said in a patronizing tone. He looked at me in a very condescending way. Oh, please.  
"Or maybe, God loves me." Oh, yeah, 'cause that's the answer.

I straightened up and rested my elbows on the table, my hands in a steeple below my chin, much like Sherlock's hands usually were like when he was thinking. "Either way, you are wasted as a cabbie." I hissed at him. His face soured but he didn't say anything.  
"So…" I focussed entirely on him, "… You risked your life four times just to kill strangers – why?" This was eating at me. Dizziness swept over me and I had to fight to keep control. I hadn't slept yet and I was still furious at Lestrade. The cabbie looked down. "Time to play." He seemed to be tired of my questions now.

"Oh, I _am_ playing. This is my turn." Time to get into the observing part of the game, "There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own – there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there." His eyes were welling up again and were glistening with tears that ached to fall. But I continued.

"The photograph's old, but the frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father." I had the urge to smirk but I managed to conceal it. I had found the point to make him cross. To make him break out of the mask he was wearing and show me the man underneath. "She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts." I paused for a moment. My eyes then lit up with glee, "Ah, but there's more. Your clothes. Recently laundered, but everything you're wearing is at least… three years old? Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead." Something puzzled me a little, however.

"And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?" I looked at him carefully, registering everything that was unsaid behind his eyes. The things that I couldn't see were revealing themselves. My frown smoothed out. "Ah… three years ago. Is that when they told you?"  
"Told me what?" He asked, not bothering to deny it. It was more like he was helping me along.

"That you're a dead man walking." I summarised emotionlessly.  
"So are you, lady." He sneered and I almost smirked at his cracked mask.  
"You don't have long, though. Am I right?" The murderer smiled, somewhat bitterly.  
"Aneurism. Right in 'ere." He told me, pointing to his head. He avoided eye contact for a moment and I really had to fight my smirk down. He then looked back at me. "Any breath could be my last."

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people."  
"I've outlived four people." He corrected me with slight desperation. "That's the most fun you can with an aneurism." I looked up to my right to show I was recalling something.  
"No… No, there's something else." I taunted, "You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator." And enter Sherlock in my mind. Why did he have to intrude in my thoughts at the most inopportune time? Typical. "Somehow, this is about your children." And right there, I saw the gap. I saw the cracks. I could see how weary he was.

"Oh…" He licked his lips and then looked back at me, "You _are_ good, in't ya?" I leaned forwards and surveyed him over my fingers.  
"But how?" His lip trembled and I realised, with alarm, that if he burst into tears, I would have no idea what to do. The cabbie seemed to be very much in his own world now. "When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs."  
"Or serial killing." I added smartly.  
"You'd be surprised." He countered. I wasn't very impressed.  
"Surprise me."

"I have a sponsor." He said, leaning in. I frowned for a moment.  
"I'm sorry, you have a what?" I asked. He returned to his previous position.  
"For every life I take, money goes to my kids." He explained with little remorse. "The more I kill… The better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think." Cruel. Cruelty. Sickening. But I didn't say anything. For a moment anyway.

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?" I muttered, crossing my arms now.  
"Who'd be a fan of Natalia Heathers? Or Sherlock Holmes?" Oh great, our fan sponsored serial killers. Brilliant. Definitely a criminal. Statistically more likely to be male as well.

"You two aren't the only ones to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a woman. And they're so much more than that." Ouch, my heart just broke.  
"I don't do my job to be the best. I do my job because I _am_ the best." I retorted. Obviously Sherlock and I were on the same page but I wouldn't mention him for now.

Then I remembered his little 'more than that' line. "What do you mean… more than a man? Or woman? An organisation? What?"  
"There's a name that no one says." My interest was piqued, "And I'm not gonna say it either." Oh. Okay then. _Oh yes you will. You'll tell me before the night is out_. "Now, enough chatter." Hah, he was losing his patience very much.

He looked at the bottle and then me. "Time to choose." I peered at it again, weighing my decisions.

"What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here." I broke the silence. Truthfully, I already knew the answer. I had already said so. Still, it would amuse me. He pulled out his pistol and sighed, aiming it right between my eyes. "You can take a 50:50 chance, or I can shoot you in the head." Now, this was getting _fun_.

"Funnily enough, no one's every gone for that option." I was unimpressed by his 'victory'.  
"I'll have the gun please." I said stoically. His lip curled a little. Amusing.  
"Are you sure?" He asked, not wavering at all. My mind was made up.  
"Definitely. The gun." He actually seemed reluctant for my choice to be the simple and definite death option.  
"You don't want to phone a friend?" I allowed myself a smirk.  
"The gun." I remained adamant. He smirked and then pulled the trigger.

A flame ignited at the end of it and I smirked. "I know a real gun when I see one." I remarked, proud of myself. He didn't anticipate that I would and his reaction was funny. He took his finger off of the trigger and held it casually. "None of the others did."  
"Clearly." Victory was sweet. "Well, this has been _very_ interesting." I licked my lips and looked at him with a smile. "I look forward to the court case." I stood gracefully and walked away. I was at the door, opening it, when he turned and spoke.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out?" I froze by the door and looked back. "Which one's the good bottle?" He pushed on. Damn it. Of course I had worked it out. Of course. It was simply too easy.  
"Course. Child's play." I replied monotonously.  
"Well, which one, then?" He asked me. I eyed him with apprehension. "Which one would you have picked? Just so I know whether I could have beaten you." I closed the door and stared at him. "Come on!" He said with a wry grin. "Play the game." He nodded at the bottles. I watched him intensely and then finally decided to play.

Instead, I took the bottle closest the cabbie. I snatched it off the table and gazed at it. "Oh." He trilled, obviously surprised by my decision. He reached forwards and took the one he had originally slid over to me. "Interesting."

"So, what do you think?" He asked, looking at the pill and then at me. "Shall we?"

"Really… what do you think? Can you beat me?" He had stood by now and he was directly challenging me. "Are you clever enough… to bet your life?" I stared at him with a vacant expression. My head tilted slightly to a very tiny sound I heard. It was almost like my name being whispered. I ignored it. "I bet you get bored, don't you?" He taunted me and my jaw clenched a little. "I know you do. A woman like you. So clever." I unscrewed the bottle with ease and emptied it onto my hand. The pill fell out and I felt the metaphorical weight of it as well as the physical mass. "But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" I held the pill up the light and observed it. I couldn't detect anything in it except for the vitamins/poison in it. "Still the addict. But this… this is what you're really addicted to." I lowered it.

"You'll do anything… anything at all, to stop being bored." How was he so right about me? He must have done so much research… Or perhaps the sponsor… Our fan had told him. Hmm. This person was becoming more and more interesting by the minute. "You're not bored now, are ya?" Gradually, I raised the pill to my lips. "Isn't it good?" And then there was a gunshot and Sherlock burst in.

**Hehe. I like my cliffhanger there. I had initially planned for there to be a kiss in the previous chapter but then I realized that I could add something so much more INTERESTING in later fictions. Yes, this will have a sequel for The Blind Banker. It will be labelled as Sherlock/OC. But The Game will have more. I'll leave you to figure it out. Cheers folks. Adios. **

**Luna**


	7. Chapter 7

I dropped the pill in shock as the cabbie fell to the ground, still clutching his own pill. I spun around and saw the bullet hole on the window. As far as I could tell, there was no one out there; it was simply too dark in the next building for me to see. I vaulted over the table to peer through but there was no one there. I then turned when I heard the driver coughing. Sherlock stood in shock, staring at the man on the floor, dying. Ironic, that he would meet his death by a bullet instead of an aneurism.

I stalked over and grabbed the pill I had dropped. "Was I right?" I demanded, "I was, wasn't I?" He was lying in a pool of his blood and he was disoriented now and his pupils were dilated. "Did I get it right?" I asked desperately. I had to have gotten it right. I had to! I threw the pill on the ground in anger. Sherlock took a few steps closer, watching the scene intently.

"Okay… tell me this." I stood over the man, "Your sponsor. Who was it?" He would tell me. He had to. If not, I'd cause him pain. More pain than he was in. "The one who told you about me, about us, our fan. I want a name." He was finding it very difficult to breathe.  
"No…" He rasped out. I didn't care.  
"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me. A name." I said through gritted teeth. I wasn't leaving _without a name_! I stood on his wound without a second thought. He gasped and moaned loudly. "A name! Now!" I pressed down even harder. He was in agony but I didn't care one bit. "The name!" I bellowed.  
"Moriarty!" He shouted and then the life left him abruptly, as though speaking his name had snuffed him out.

I stood in silence for a moment and then backed away. "Moriarty…" I mouthed and then I looked at Sherlock. He was watching me so intensely, I felt like I would melt. I grinned sadistically. "We have a fan, Sherlock." I informed him and his gaze flicked between the body and myself.

"Moriarty…" He said quietly. "I haven't heard of him before." I shook my head.  
"Neither have I." I replied and we remained in silence for a little while longer. I broke it after twenty nine seconds. "How did you find me?" I asked curiously. He walked over, avoiding the blood puddle and corpse with ease, and looked down at me.  
"Jennifer Wilson's phone. She didn't have a laptop and therefore used her phone for everything. We managed to trace it." I nodded in understanding. Made perfect sense.

"Where's John?"  
"Around." I heard sirens in the distance and then cricked my neck. "I don't know about you, but I've got a sofa that needs sleeping on."

Sadly, I had to be interrogated by Lestrade first. Even more annoying, some of the paramedics kept putting an orange blanket on me. After the sixth time, I merely stared down at it. Lestrade then walked over. I sighed and breathed in heavily. I had to act professional. I was working. Lestrade seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Sherlock and John were standing on the other side of the Police tape, watching me.

"Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me." I demanded.  
"Yeah, it's for shock." I frowned. How stupid. I wasn't in shock.  
"I'm not in shock." I denied and stared at him incredously. He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets.  
"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs." Oh, brilliant.

I ignored it, more or less, and went back to business. "So, the shooter – no sign?" I queried, already knowing the pathetic answer. Lestrade sighed heavily and peered around a little before looking back at me. "Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but… we've got nothing to go on." I looked up at him.  
"Hardly." I said sharply. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Look, Natalia, I'm really sorry that-." I held my hand up and he silenced himself.  
"I don't want to hear it, Lestrade. I'm still annoyed at you and as soon as this case is over, I'll be ignoring you for the rest of my life. But then again, since you're _always_ out of your depth and since I _am_ Sherlock's partner, I'll be involved with almost all of your cases. So, I guess there's no point in apologising because I simply won't forgive you." I then nodded saying that I was done. I stood up and I began another speech.

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun." I stated, putting my hands in my pockets. Though I disliked the blanket, it offered some warmth; I had forgotten a jacket once again. "A kill shot over that distance, from that kind of a weapon, that's a crack shot. But not just a marksman, a fighter." I continued. Lestrade looked at me in interest as I explained. "His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence." I glanced at him for a moment and then continued watching a flickering lamppost. "He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle." I paused for a moment, "You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and..." I glanced at John just as he looked at me, "… nerves of steel…" John.

Oh, of course. Stupid of me. Sherlock had implied it earlier and here I was, pretty much leading the police to him. He may have killed the man who was going to kill me but that was still classed as murder. Oh, for God's sake… Screw this! I blinked and shook my head. "Actually, do you know what? Ignore me." First time in my life that I had ever said that.  
"Sorry?" Lestrade questioned.  
"Ignore all of that." I waved my hand, "It's the just the, er… the shock talking." I explained and began to move off.  
"Where are you going?"  
"I just need to… talk about the… the rent." Oh, for God's sake! No!

"Oh, what now?" I snapped, "I'm in shock – look, I've got a blanket." I even tugged on it a little to accentuate the fact that I was indeed in shock. Lestrade wasn't buying any of it.  
"Natalia!" He said, like a parent chiding their child. It was a childish argument but still amusing, I suppose.  
"And… I just caught you a serial killer… more or less." Yeah, it wasn't my fault that he was dead! The fault is John's! Don't blame me! Lestrade surveyed me for a few more seconds and then nodded. "Okay. We'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go." I walked off with my head held high. Walking around in an orange blanket draped over one's shoulders is awfully painful for one's pride, I'll have you know.

I shrugged the blanket off of me and chucked it carelessly into a police car's open window. "Erm… Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything. Two pills…" John shook his head and then looked back at me. Very good, John, but you're rather easy to read. "Dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful." He said it with a tint of sarcasm and I smirked.  
"Good shot." I said bluntly with a 'thank you' in my eyes. John froze and then nodded.  
"Yes. Yes, must have been. Through that window." He was still trying to cover it up. Right.  
"Well, _you'd_ know."

"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers." I remarked, pointing discreetly at his hands. "I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid a court case." He cleared his throat and then looked around nervously. I frowned.  
"Are you all right?" I asked with concern.  
"Yes, of course I'm all right."  
"Well, you have just killed a man." I countered.  
"Yes, I…" He then realized his mistake. I didn't smirk. I merely surveyed him emotionlessly. Huzzah for being taller than him! "That's true, isn't it?" He admitted and I smiled encouragingly. "But he wasn't a very nice man." I looked at him in amusement.

"No. No, he wasn't, really, was he?" I said with a sarcastic tone and small frown.  
"Yeah, frankly, a bloody awful cabbie." I cracked a smile and chuckled.  
"That's true, he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here." It was dreadful. John giggled a little. "Stop! We can't giggle, it's a crime scene. Stop it." He chortled. I looked behind me to see him grinning. Where was Sherlock?

"You're the one who shot him." A deep voice from behind me said and I jumped a little, spinning to look at them. Sherlock was grinning behind me. I cocked an eyebrow. He'd been hiding, the cheeky sod. "Keep your voice down!" John warned, still wearing a smile. We passed Sally and I quickly went back to being silly and 'shocked'. "Sorry, it's just, erm… nerves, I think." John apologised. Sally shook her head and scoffed, moving away from us as we passed. "Sorry." I uttered quietly.

"You were going to take that pill, weren't you?" Sherlock asked me and I grinned a little. I turned to look at my flatmates.  
"Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." I lied.  
"No you didn't." John refused with a grin. "That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? Both of you. You risk your life to prove you're clever." Oh great, a speech?  
"Why would we do that?" Sherlock asked monotonously.  
"Because you're idiots." Sherlock nearly smirked but I had no reaction. Must have been a private joke or something. Sherlock then looked at me with a gleam in his eye. "Dinner?" He then looked at John, to prove it wasn't just me he was asking.  
"Starving." John replied and I nodded with a smirk. We began walking again.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese. Stays open till two." Sherlock informed us as we walked away from the crime scene. "You can tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle." I added with a sly grin.  
"Sherlock, Natalia… that's him, that's the man I was talking to you about." John said urgently. I looked up immediately and stared at Mycroft in disbelief and irritation.  
"We know exactly who that is." I muttered.

"So… another case cracked." Mycroft said with a small smile, "How very public-spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it? Either of you?" Great. Just brilliant. Bloody excellent.  
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock questioned sternly.  
"As ever, I'm concerned about the both of you."  
"Yes, we've heard of your 'concern'." Sherlock stared at his brother, still irritated at his sibling no doubt for not only being more intelligent, but still poking his nose into his business. "Always so aggressive." Mycroft commented, "Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"  
"Oddly enough… no." Sherlock replied cynically.  
"We have more in common than either of you would like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer." Mycroft reminded him with anger, "And you know how it always upset Mummy." Mycroft's attention was solely on his brother now.

"_I_ upset her?" Sherlock mumbled incredously. "Me? It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft." John piped up.  
"No. No, wait…" Oh, great. He's _just_ caught on. "Mummy? Who's Mummy?" I rolled my eyes.  
"Mother. Our mother." Sherlock replied bitterly, "This is my brother, Mycroft." Mycroft looked at John with a small smirk and an amused glint in his eyes. Silly John. "Putting on weight again?" Would you like some cream for that burn?

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft retorted proudly.  
"He's your brother?" John asked with surprise.  
"Course he's my brother." John seemed speechless. Only for a moment, however.

"So he's not…"  
"Not what?" Sherlock looked at him sharply. Mycroft's gaze became indignant but he frowned after.  
"I don't know… criminal mastermind?" I scoffed quietly. Sherlock scanned his brother for a few moments in contempt. Their relationship was very weak. It had good moments. But mostly it had bad weeks. There was the Hate Year that Mycroft had told me about once. "Close enough."

"For goodness' sake, I occupy a minor position in the British Government." Mycroft replied.  
"He _is_ the British Government when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." I interjected, "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before we get home – you know what it does for the traffic." I said curtly and then walked off, Sherlock following me immediately after.

"So, din sum." Sherlock said when John caught up with us.  
"Mmm." John agreed eagerly.  
"I can always predict the fortune cookies." I scoffed.  
"No, you can't."  
"Almost can." He replied immediately. He was in a merry mood and I was too.

"What are you two so happy about?" John queried, as though concerned about our sudden joy.  
"Moriarty." We said simultaneously. John frowned.  
"What's Moriarty?"  
"We've absolutely no idea." We said at the same time once more.

No idea what we were going to do next. Probably take things as they came. But what I knew was this: Life was certainly going to be more interesting living with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

**FINISHED! Not too bad. I rather liked this fiction. The Blind Banker will be next. Hope you guys liked this! Thank you all! Cheers folks! Adios! **

**Luna**


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